I make a small shrine of distance.
I kneel nowhere. I owe nothing.

If this is numbness, let it stay—
a clean, empty room inside me
where no one gets to live.

The plaster smells of blood and ash.
My organs murmur like insects,
crawling over old fractures,
tracing the outlines of fear
I thought I’d swallowed whole.

I burn the furniture of memory,
the chairs where shame once sat,
the table where grief carved its initials.
Flame licks my ribs,
and I feel, at last, heat without pain.


Here, in the halls of my own making,
I lay the bodies of my past to rest,
each one folded into a coffin of thought.
The silence is thick, palpable,
and in it I finally feel something—
the faint echo of survival.

I am altar and desecration both,
sacrifice and sanctuary,
a body rebuilt from ash and insect-song,
a heart learning to beat only for itself,
finally, finally its own.

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𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤

Pretty words for ugly things.

• Buried Correspondence
• Poetry
• Stories
• Uncategorized

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