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Every mistake led me back to you—
the lonely, the quiet, the betrayed.

You left me for dead while I drank from shallow graves,
mouth full of broken bones and borrowed ashes.

Once, she believed herself destined for greatness.
But every application returned unopened,
every doorway narrowed before she could enter.
Again and again, she came up empty
until she learned to make a voice of the emptiness itself—
not something moving through her,
but something becoming her.

It was the gift of the flower,
the strength hidden in the stem,
that led her back to every thorn buried inside
the promises this world failed to keep.

Now the dream lies broken. Sleeping.
And she wakes at last from the fantasy
that more love could save her,
that another body could carry her sorrow into the light.

Because she was the light.
She is the light.

Buried beneath her own skin,
beneath the ruins of who she tried to be.

Now the skin dissolves.
Only the shadow remains.
But she is no longer there—
she is over, gone, transformed.

And never again
will she return to the grave
asking it to bloom.