Memory has teeth, a hush,
A chamber built of breathing wallpaper,
Peeling, alive. I enter it daily.

I step through, barefoot,
into a corridor lined with mirrors,
with versions of me as reflections:
a girl in pearls and incense smoke,
a woman swallowing her name,
a mouth sewn shut with ribbon.

A silver-flecked box beneath my tongue,
its hinges rusted shut with prayers.
No one sees. The wound wears pearls;

I dressed it in silk,
set candles beside the wreckage,
and called it sacred.
I spoke only affirmations,
like spells, sweet words
I fed the universe like seeds,

my throat full of snowdrops and ghosts:

Please grow me a life
that doesn’t shiver in its sleep.

But the ripple moves. It always does.
Through time. Through space. Through me.

I tried to frost the wound in light.
I hung dreamcatchers like talismans,
whispered mantras into tea.
I spun silk out of lavender oil
and rose quartz,
lined the ribcage of my life
with glittering distractions.
I painted over the cracks
with angel wings and moon phases.
I made altars out of dissociation
and called it healing.

But silence echoes.
Even in temples.
Even in rooms where everything smells holy.
The unspoken grows legs,
wanders through the years,
flicking switches I didn’t wire.
It calls to me in mirrors:
“I am you.”