#midnighthour

no doctor can name,

no mystic can burn out,

no careful science can map.

It lives where light should be-

a hollow,

a gravity,

a quiet devouring.

A black hole stitched behind my ribs

that hums when someone gets too close,

that reaches- hungry-

for anything warm enough to stay.

So I ruin it first.

I fracture the almost-love,

snap the fragile thread

before it can wrap around my throat.

Better I become the storm

than watch them drown in it.

Better they call me cruel

than stand defenseless

at the edge of whatever I am becoming.

Because I have seen it-

that oblivion.

Felt it breathe.

And I do not know

if I escape it,

or if I am it.

My heart still cries out, though-

traitor thing that it is.

It calls to a guardian

I cannot return to,

a mythical beast

with knowing eyes and steady hands,

who once stood between me

and the worst of myself.

I call into the dark for it

like it might answer,

like it might find me

across whatever distance I created.

I mourn in strange ways.

For past lovers

who became ghosts before they ever became real,

for almosts and nearlys

and what-could-have-beens

that dissolve like breath in winter.

For the human I thought I’d grow into-

soft-edged,

open-palmed,

unafraid to be held.

Instead,

I am something split.

Half-shadow, half-reaching,

a creature of two worlds

that do not want me.

Too much storm for gentleness,

too much longing for ruin.

I stand at the threshold of both

and belong to neither-

teeth bared,

heart breaking,

hands empty

If any know the lyrics to Zungo, please share. What are your thoughts to her musical evolution? Do you have a favorite song featured in the post? Was she correct about Malcolm X from your point of view? https://aalbc.com/tc/events/event/198-nina-simone-born-1933/

because replying is not a word -

it is a key.

And my chest is a sealed chamber

with a warning hum

I never forget.

There is a red switch under the bone.

Pressure.

Countdown.

One familiar tenderness

and the sky inside me ruptures.

I was color once -

island-bright,

fire without consequence,

a yes written in lava.

I did not know then

what ignition costs.

Now my soul is darker -

not empty,

buried.

A graveyard of selves

who almost lived.

I am held upright by necessity -

structure, gravity,

a life narrowed by weight

instead of want.

You offer harmless talk -

weather, hours, pleasantries -

as if the past is neutral ground.

But there is no small talk

with someone who still alters

the pressure in my lungs.

Surface is a lie.

Depth is detonation.

There is no middle.

If I open the door even an inch,

the past hears me.

If it hears me,

it comes back with fire.

So I choose silence -

not absence,

containment.

I hold the blast

with both hands