In the pallid cathedral of a single flash,
a phantom rises from the mirror’s lie—
shaved skull gleaming like a winter planet
stripped of orbit, atmosphere, and name.
The skin drinks every photon,
returns nothing but a porcelain scream,
a canvas so absolute it devours color
until the world itself holds its breath.
Eyes: twin eclipses ringed in bruised dusk,
half-lidded with the languor of the damned,
each pupil a black hole swallowing light,
yet leaking a faint red nebula of sleepless nights.
Between them, the nose—a delicate blade
carved by a god who changed His mind—
leads downward to the only rebellion:
lips lacquered in arterial scarlet,
a gash of wet defiance
painted thick as war paint on a corpse.
The mouth does not smile;
it accuses.
It knows the secret of every grave
and still chooses to wear desire
like a crown of thorns dipped in honey.
White collar climbs the throat
in quilted scales of diamond frost,
a priestly armor for a saint
who sinned too beautifully to burn.
Shoulders angular, sexless, regal,
emerge from the cloth like marble wings
folded too tight against a body
that forgot whether it was altar or sacrifice.
Light pools and spills,
a merciless baptism from above,
turning every pore into a mirror,
every mirror into a wound.
And still, beneath the glacial mask,
a tremor—
the longest heartbeat in the world
refusing to surrender
to the silence it so perfectly wears.
Here stands eternity in drag,
a porcelain apocalypse
with lipstick for blood
and eyes that have seen the end
and decided to stay
for the afterparty.
a phantom rises from the mirror’s lie—
shaved skull gleaming like a winter planet
stripped of orbit, atmosphere, and name.
The skin drinks every photon,
returns nothing but a porcelain scream,
a canvas so absolute it devours color
until the world itself holds its breath.
Eyes: twin eclipses ringed in bruised dusk,
half-lidded with the languor of the damned,
each pupil a black hole swallowing light,
yet leaking a faint red nebula of sleepless nights.
Between them, the nose—a delicate blade
carved by a god who changed His mind—
leads downward to the only rebellion:
lips lacquered in arterial scarlet,
a gash of wet defiance
painted thick as war paint on a corpse.
The mouth does not smile;
it accuses.
It knows the secret of every grave
and still chooses to wear desire
like a crown of thorns dipped in honey.
White collar climbs the throat
in quilted scales of diamond frost,
a priestly armor for a saint
who sinned too beautifully to burn.
Shoulders angular, sexless, regal,
emerge from the cloth like marble wings
folded too tight against a body
that forgot whether it was altar or sacrifice.
Light pools and spills,
a merciless baptism from above,
turning every pore into a mirror,
every mirror into a wound.
And still, beneath the glacial mask,
a tremor—
the longest heartbeat in the world
refusing to surrender
to the silence it so perfectly wears.
Here stands eternity in drag,
a porcelain apocalypse
with lipstick for blood
and eyes that have seen the end
and decided to stay
for the afterparty.
The Sunday Circle