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The chest, a hollowed birdcage, ribs splayed wide,
No fragile heart to flutter, only tide
Of absence, pulling, churning, cold and vast,
A landscape where all joy has long since passed.

No polished grief, no carefully composed
Expression etched in sorrow, neatly posed.
But ragged edges where the spirit tore,
A primal scream that echoes evermore
Within the silence, thick and heavy-hung,
A broken melody forever unsung.

The skin, a map of tremors, sharp and deep,
Where phantom touches linger, secrets keep.
Each memory, a shard that twists and turns,
Igniting fires that relentlessly burn.
No gentle tears that cleanse and softly fall,
But guttural sobs that shake the very wall
Of self-control, a dam that bursts and breaks,
Leaving the soul exposed to brutal aches.

The voice, a strangled whisper, barely there,
Afraid to speak the name that fills the air.
For in that sound, the wound begins to bleed
Again, a fresh and agonizing need.
No eloquent lament, no crafted phrase,
Just broken fragments of forgotten days,
And the raw truth, unvarnished and unkind,
Of what it means to leave a self behind.

The world outside, a vibrant, bustling hum,
A stark contrast to the kingdom overcome
By shadows where the light can't penetrate
The crushing weight of this desolate state.
No solace found in platitudes or time,
Just the stark reckoning of this gruesome crime
Against the self, a love that turned to dust,
Leaving behind this agonizing rust
Of what was, and the stark reality,
The raw, unflinching vulnerability.

©bfa050325

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