the tongue has always been a hunger
a small animal learning the trap of the jaw
before the mirror even knew the shape of the face
there was a nesting of vowels in the chest
a dream of swallowing the library whole
just to find the rib where the breath belongs
the keepers of the grammar were gentle with the ghost
they handed over the heavy books of stone and bone
the names of monsters that died before the flood
because the cage of the years was closing tight
and the only way out was through the spine of a dictionary
stealing the verbs necessary to anchor a shadow to the floor
once the white rooms took the skin
back when the blood was already trying to escape the wrists
a soft bird caught in the machinery of a bleeding map
the year the kingdom chose a mouth made of iron and teeth
and the dirt outside swore it would never grow a flower for a girl like her
so the black ink became the only bandage that wouldn’t peel away
she sat at the miniature tables built for small compliance
her knees knocking against the throat of the wood
and with a stolen crayon she broke the nouns in half
she called herself the boy the beast the thing the missing girl
a riddle thrown against the high stone wall of the world
asking the dark how long a body must bleed before it is allowed to stay
years of white coats and the sound of iron sliding into iron
a chorus of wild howling from the rooms down the hall
while she lay in the sheets dreaming of soft skin against soft skin
building cities of stars and magic in the margins of the madness
letting the ink spill out the color of a fresh wound
because the dead don’t need a journal
the father called the song a flock of crows
a useless weeping over a spilled bucket of ash
and his words were a cold frost that stayed on the grass for years
making the fingers go stiff around the pen
until the page was just a clean sheet of winter
where nothing was permitted to speak
then youth came like a bell struck underwater
a few short breaths dropped into the well to see if the echo remained
the memory of the fire stirring under the frost
and the mirror broke into an infinity of eyes
the whole heavy cosmos trying to squeeze into a single throat
a terrible and beautiful weight pressing down on the chest
she felt the oldest pulse of the dirt wake up inside her hip
a goddess made of rust and lightning and interconnected stars
the realization that the skin is just a thin curtain separating the fire from the yard
and every hand she touched was a hand she had already lost
so the lines became an eviction notice to the dark
a blazing sunset poured directly onto the floorboards
eventually the flames had taken the house entirely
the ink was no longer liquid but a row of burning torches
spitting orange warnings at the people standing on the sidewalk
she did not want their applause or their polite pity
she only wanted them to look at the ash and imagine a roof that could hold them all
to see the blueprint of a world that did not require a cage
now the pages are stacked up like sandbags against the rising river
a long line of salvations torn from the throat in a single moon
a ledger of every place the iron bit the meat
and every place the wound turned into a mouth that sings
she is praying to the massive collective breathing of the street
begging the lonely to stop eating their own children
we are all the same creature trying to remember how to breathe at the same time
the universe trying to look at its own back through the dark
so she leaves the words on the doorstep like a bucket of milk
a piece of the lung offered to anyone who is still coughing in the smoke
proving that the story can be rewritten even after the fire has taken the stairs
— lyra moon (to pull the anchor up from the throat and find it has become a rudder)
july 20, 2026