Back Where the Lines Still Moan

I vanished soft a stolen breath, a hush between the lips of death. But ink remembers how I taste, how slow I draw, how sweet, how chaste then twist the lace and let it slide, a metaphor with hips that glide. They say I left but I just leaned into the hush behind the screen. The lines you wrote, they danced in me, like whispers tangled in a tree. I read your grief, your bloom, your burn, your holy ache at every turn. I came for rhyme, not crown or prize, though yes, I wore them—modest size. But deeper still, I craved the sound of raw hearts pressed in verse unbound. Your syllables were sacred wine, and I was drunk on every line. My pen once dripped with veiled delight, I dressed my want in satin night. You knew the script, I spoke in skin, but never named the truth within. Still Soup knew how to taste the tease, how heat can hide in subtle breeze. The page remembers. So do I. A sigh between a moon and sky. Now here I stand, not lost, just grown, a voice reborn in deeper tone. No need to shout, I hum, I purr, and write like silk slipped under fur. You knew me once by Brenda Chiri here but I’ve been whispering far and near. In other rooms, in rebel flare, I left my name: rebeltease, bare. So if the style feels soft yet sly, it’s still the me you knew just high on life and loss and everything a metaphor might dare to bring. So stir the bowl. I bring my flame, no shame in how I lit my name. Not here to boast, just here to bleed, to feed the ones who feel the need. My ink’s still warm, my mouth still known I’m back where the lines still moan Poet’s Note: I have been gone but I first found my voice here under my given name, Brenda Chiri In other corners of the poetry world, you may have known me as “rebeltease”. Same pen, same pulse, just deeper ink now. It’s good to be home.