When the Dead Still Hold Your Breath

Grief is not a feeling. It’s a haunting.
It slips in unannounced, rearranges the furniture,
sits in your lungs like wet velvet.

You don’t “have” grief.
It settles into you,
pulls breath through your ribs like wind through a cracked window.

The Hunger That Hunts You

Addiction has teeth—yellowed, cracked, patient.
It waits in the marrow,
gnashing behind every ache that promises relief.

It doesn’t speak in words,
but in the ache for more.
Even when the cup spills,
even when the craving cuts deeper than the wound.

Deeper...

You will not think your way out.
The mind cannot undo what the bones remember.

The way forward is not paved.
It is not lit.
It is not safe.

It is a trackless path through fog-wet bramble,
where maps dissolve
and the only compass
is the trembling of your own chest.

Go inward...