Unlatched

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published No surprise that I write myself into every corner, that my stories become maps of my stubborn heart. When the world falls silent, I am still singing. No surprise I’m always finding the edges of myself in the dark glow of half-remembered stories, their language blooming like nightshade in soft corners. I drag each letter through the current of my breath and let it wander until it forgets where it began. When the world grows still, my voice flickers on, singing the relics of dusk and dawn in one breath. No one asked me to keep singing still, I sing. My words shatter against fog, tangle in the furor of everything I never said. A thread unravels from my chest, long enough to tether me to every flicker of color I’ve carried in the pockets of my sleep. The past writes itself into me, like a memory slipping down the throat of night each line I draw from this heart is a restless animal, shivering under the soft promise of morning. I do not claim perfection in the way the world demands no neat lines, no simple song just this weaving of voice and breath, these shifting echoes that break and break again into something I almost understand. Still, I am here scratching in the calm with words that refuse to be quiet. When silence comes to close the doors, I leave them unlatched a thousand small openings for my story to slip out and dance in the dust. I am the song that keeps rising even when no one listens each note an unfinished spell, each breath a dare to keep living in the gaps of everything unspoken.