Veins of the Quill:

Midnight stains the page—a wound turned hymn,

my veins unravel into rivers of ink,

each syllable a shard of glass I swallow,

to carve constellations from the static.

I write until the moon forgets its name,

until my hands bruise the air with metaphors,

until “love” sheds its skin, becomes a verb

that dances naked in the rain.

The poem wakes—a feral, flickering thing,

gnawing at the margins, howling for your throat.

It licks the salt from your shadows, stitches

its teeth into the silence you call “home.”

Do you feel it? The tremor in the stanza’s spine,

the comma gasping, the period’s swollen pause?

This is not a verse—it’s a smuggled heartbeat,

thrumming in the ribs of strangers.

I plant my ghosts in the soil of your breath.

They bloom into a language only we exhale—

a cipher of scars, a chorus of cracked light.

Read me slowly. Let the words bleed.