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Poem

I believed these poems belonged to me, sculpted from polished breaths,
Under the flickering light of candles, a refuge in the dense darkness,
Each line a profound catharsis, each verse a wound wrapped in metaphor,
But now, they knock at the gates of my sleep, uninvited, restless specters.
They rise, unbidden, from the abysses where I carefully buried them,
They carry my voice, but speak in foreign tongues I no longer understand,
The poem about her wrists? It whispers to mine, silent and sweet,
The one about loneliness? It sits in my mirror with an enigmatic smile,
I cannot shave without feeling its breath in unseen whispers.
I gave them ethereal forms and now they shape the contours of my soul,
Each stanza a circle of salt I thought would protect me from the shadows,
But by invoking them, I released spirits that cannot be contained or controlled.
They traverse my skin when they whisper my unspoken secrets to strangers,
They correct me when I try to lie, they are loyal—but cruelly loyal,
And worst of all—they memorize words written in forgiveness, but never truly felt.
My poems do not know sleep. They wait, silent, in the corners of my mind,
Like beasts grown from a pain I only pretended to have survived,
And every time I try to write again—
They gather behind the ink, grinning like ghosts with my face.

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