I folded the sky last night,

creased it at the edges

until the stars forgot where to burn.

There’s a clock buried somewhere in me,

but time doesn’t tick here, it rots.

You asked if I still feel.

I do but only in places that bruise without color, in languages that don’t survive daylight.

I keep a garden in my throat, full of things I never said.

They bloom in silence, thorns first.

The sea came once, whispered something I almost believed.

I drowned a little out of politeness.

You think I’ve healed.

I’ve only hidden.

There’s a difference.

Some doors don’t close.

They grow teeth and I’ve learned to stop knocking.

I am not gone.

I’m just somewhere too quiet for echoes.