The night is not for innocence. It never was.
My voice is not a mother’s. It is the crack in the chapel ceiling through which the rain seeps, dark and fertile. It is the whisper between the ribs of a dying fire—warm, corrupt, and patient. I will sing you a song that doesn’t put you to sleep, but wakes the part of you that sleeps wrong .
You wanted to be good. But good is a cage with a golden lock. Tonight, I hold the key, and it tastes of rust and honey.
And it will call itself peace .
So listen.
Sleep will not find you here. But something else will.
The night is not for innocence. It never was.
My voice is not a mother’s. It is the crack in the chapel ceiling through which the rain seeps, dark and fertile. It is the whisper between the ribs of a dying fire—warm, corrupt, and patient. I will sing you a song that doesn’t put you to sleep, but wakes the part of you that sleeps wrong .
You wanted to be good. But good is a cage with a golden lock. Tonight, I hold the key, and it tastes of rust and honey.
And it will call itself peace .
So listen.
Sleep will not find you here. But something else will.
