tell me about the morning the map caught fire
and we watched the roads curl into black ash
you had a pocket full of bird skulls and a mouth full of salt
and you thought the floorboards would hold us forever
they never do
everything you saved is just loose gravel now
look at the dirt between your fingers
look at how wide the empty field is when the house burns down
we are riding a bus that only goes in circles through the dark
the headlights are broken and the driver is asleep
and the people next to us are chewing on cold bone
looking through the glass at nothing at all
this is where the road ends
this is where we find the body in the ditch
the skin turned to blue ice the pockets turned inside out
that could be your coat
you want to talk about sorrow
i want to talk about the wolf living in your throat
you wake up with its teeth against your collarbone
and you have to speak to it
until you sound like everyone who ever lost a war
after that there is only the hand that pulls you out of the river
not because you deserve it but because the water is too deep
it forces your boots onto your feet
shoves you out into the gray rain
the single shadow that stays when the lights go out
it catches your wrist in the crowded street
and doesn’t let go
and doesn’t explain itself
and doesn’t bite
—lyra moon (the tooth against the skin that chooses not to sink)
july 5, 2026