She condenses from the hour that has no name,
the minute after the last clock surrendered
and the darkness filed for bankruptcy.
She does not arrive;
the room simply inhales
and forgets how to exhale.
Her skull is a porcelain planet
shaved by a wind that never learned gentleness.
No stubble, no mercy,
only the high gloss of a surface
that has reflected every stare
and returned them
broken.
Run your hand across it
and the air will owe you silence
for the rest of your life.
Skin the colour of a letter
never mailed,
the white of paper left too long
in a drawer full of unsent apologies.
Not snow,
not milk,
not any word they tried to cage her in;
this is the white of a hospital corridor
at 4 a.m.
when even the fluorescent lights
lower their voices.
Eyes: two black pearls
dropped into a glass of midnight
and left to drown slowly.
They do not blink;
blinking is for people
who still believe
time is on their side.
Look too long
and you will see your own childhood
trying to crawl out
but the pupils
close like iron gates
at curfew.
The mouth is a single brushstroke
of fresh blood
on a canvas that was supposed to stay blank.
Upper lip thin as the edge
of a promise
about to be broken.
Lower lip heavy as the silence
after the promise
is broken.
Between them,
a darkness
that tastes like the last word
in every argument
you lost
without speaking.
Her shirt is a net
woven from the threads
of every curtain
that ever hid a secret.
White squares repeating
like jail cells
drawn by an architect
who never believed
in parole.
Each diamond a window
that opens onto the same empty room
where childhood
is serving a life sentence
without visitors.
Neck long like the pause
before the verdict.
A single tendon
visible beneath the skin
like a tightrope
someone is still walking
at 3 a.m.
because falling
is not an option
they were ever given.
Behind her, the wall forgets its own name.
Paint peeling in slow motion,
revealing older paint
that also forgot.
Cracks spread
like rumours
in a town too small
for truth.
A single moth
beats itself against the plaster
trying to become light
and failing
beautifully.
The bulb overhead
is not off.
It is holding its breath.
The filament trembles
like a lie
caught in the throat
of someone
who swore they would never tell.
She stands at the centre
of this unfinished prayer.
Her shadow
does not obey gravity
today.
It floats
three inches above the floor
like a verdict
still being decided.
When she inhales,
the temperature drops
two degrees
and every clock
in the building
loses a minute
it can never reclaim.
When she exhales,
the dust rearranges itself
into the shape
of every name
she was never allowed to answer to.
She is the girl
the sun was told
to leave alone
but the sun
never learned
how to follow instructions.
She is the reason
mirrors crack
in empty houses
at night.
She is the reason
priests
forget the next line
of the sermon
when she walks past
the open door.
She is the moment
after the last page
of a book
no one was brave enough
to finish.
She is the silence
that arrives
right after
the word
“guilty”
and stays
long after
the word
“innocent”
was erased.
She is the colour white
learning how to bleed
without staining
the floor.
And the red on her lips
is not decoration.
It is the period
at the end
of every sentence
they wrote
about her
and got wrong.
She has heard
every name
they tried to bury her under
and answered
by rising
clean
from the grave
they dug
with their tongues.
This is not a photograph.
This is the instant
before lightning
remembers
it was supposed to strike
somewhere else.
And she
remains
perfectly
still
until the storm
forgets
its own name
and calls her
by hers
instead.
Still
here.
Still
burning.
Still.
the minute after the last clock surrendered
and the darkness filed for bankruptcy.
She does not arrive;
the room simply inhales
and forgets how to exhale.
Her skull is a porcelain planet
shaved by a wind that never learned gentleness.
No stubble, no mercy,
only the high gloss of a surface
that has reflected every stare
and returned them
broken.
Run your hand across it
and the air will owe you silence
for the rest of your life.
Skin the colour of a letter
never mailed,
the white of paper left too long
in a drawer full of unsent apologies.
Not snow,
not milk,
not any word they tried to cage her in;
this is the white of a hospital corridor
at 4 a.m.
when even the fluorescent lights
lower their voices.
Eyes: two black pearls
dropped into a glass of midnight
and left to drown slowly.
They do not blink;
blinking is for people
who still believe
time is on their side.
Look too long
and you will see your own childhood
trying to crawl out
but the pupils
close like iron gates
at curfew.
The mouth is a single brushstroke
of fresh blood
on a canvas that was supposed to stay blank.
Upper lip thin as the edge
of a promise
about to be broken.
Lower lip heavy as the silence
after the promise
is broken.
Between them,
a darkness
that tastes like the last word
in every argument
you lost
without speaking.
Her shirt is a net
woven from the threads
of every curtain
that ever hid a secret.
White squares repeating
like jail cells
drawn by an architect
who never believed
in parole.
Each diamond a window
that opens onto the same empty room
where childhood
is serving a life sentence
without visitors.
Neck long like the pause
before the verdict.
A single tendon
visible beneath the skin
like a tightrope
someone is still walking
at 3 a.m.
because falling
is not an option
they were ever given.
Behind her, the wall forgets its own name.
Paint peeling in slow motion,
revealing older paint
that also forgot.
Cracks spread
like rumours
in a town too small
for truth.
A single moth
beats itself against the plaster
trying to become light
and failing
beautifully.
The bulb overhead
is not off.
It is holding its breath.
The filament trembles
like a lie
caught in the throat
of someone
who swore they would never tell.
She stands at the centre
of this unfinished prayer.
Her shadow
does not obey gravity
today.
It floats
three inches above the floor
like a verdict
still being decided.
When she inhales,
the temperature drops
two degrees
and every clock
in the building
loses a minute
it can never reclaim.
When she exhales,
the dust rearranges itself
into the shape
of every name
she was never allowed to answer to.
She is the girl
the sun was told
to leave alone
but the sun
never learned
how to follow instructions.
She is the reason
mirrors crack
in empty houses
at night.
She is the reason
priests
forget the next line
of the sermon
when she walks past
the open door.
She is the moment
after the last page
of a book
no one was brave enough
to finish.
She is the silence
that arrives
right after
the word
“guilty”
and stays
long after
the word
“innocent”
was erased.
She is the colour white
learning how to bleed
without staining
the floor.
And the red on her lips
is not decoration.
It is the period
at the end
of every sentence
they wrote
about her
and got wrong.
She has heard
every name
they tried to bury her under
and answered
by rising
clean
from the grave
they dug
with their tongues.
This is not a photograph.
This is the instant
before lightning
remembers
it was supposed to strike
somewhere else.
And she
remains
perfectly
still
until the storm
forgets
its own name
and calls her
by hers
instead.
Still
here.
Still
burning.
Still.
The Sunday Circle