"The Echo Has Teeth"

I left my name

on a mirror once—

fog-breathed and fading

before I could finish the last letter.

They called me by what they needed.

Helper. Listener.

Container of silence.

A friendly ghost in daylight.

But under my ribs?

Lanterns swing

in windless rooms,

each one lit

by a question that refuses

to shut up.

I asked “what now?”

It laughed like gravel.

I asked “who am I?”

and the echo had teeth.

Sometimes I pretend

my skin is paper—

just to feel the wind

try to write me new.

Still, I carry my shadows

like misread maps.

They whisper wrong directions

with such conviction

I almost follow.

But something in me—

the cracked compass,

the stargazer with a limp—

still believes

the broken path

is proof of motion.

And maybe

not knowing

is sacred.

Maybe

being lost

is just

the prelude

to blooming.