Treat me like a dagger, put me in my placeβ
sink me into the base of your palms,
let me taste the iron of old sins,
let me drink the blood that once called me home.
I am quietβ
a thorn pressed against your palm,
waiting to be remembered.
now you leave me half-buried in the mud,
your warmth slipping from my blade.
I feel the air cool where your hands once were,
the night closing its mouth around me.
the cypress roots curl tighter,
as if to keep me,
as if they know you wonβt return.
I am quietβ
watching you go,
my edge still glinting,
hoping youβll look back
and remember what youβve left to rust.
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