the tea goes cold on the desk
the window holds gray light, minutes before the skies break open
you sit with two things in your hands
one is a blade sharp enough that you already know where it cuts, and how long it takes to stop bleeding
the other is a story you wore for years like a canvas coat
heavy, coarse, familiar enough that you kept it strapped tight against your chest
because taking it off meant admitting the skin underneath had been freezing the entire time
no one is asking you to drop either one today
no one is reaching into the room to pull your fingers loose
but your knuckles are turning white against the seams
the thread is digging into the soft meat of your palms, leaving red, raw lines where you clamp down
you are fighting the air itself just to keep the weight from shifting
you are breathing in shallow, jagged gasps to keep the fabric from tearing at the shoulders
because if you unclasp your hands, the story falls
and if the story falls, the blame goes with it
and if the blame goes with it, there is nothing left to fix, nowhere left to run, no reason you ever bled at all
so you press your thumbs harder into the edge
you welcome it because the sting feels like a choice
you hold the coat closed against the dark, shivering until your bones rattle in your chest
standing in a room where the furniture’s already gone, just outlines in the dust where the chairs used to sit
choosing to bleed on the floor just to prove your hands still work
the rain strikes the glass, hard and fast
and you stay right there, pinned to the room’s bare bones under your feet by your own grip
holding on to the burning, holding on to the bruise
paying the rent on a house that was torn down months ago
—lyra moon (holding the blade by the body to make the bleeding mine)
september 3, 2026