I am the nymph
spilling between the folds of myth and memory,
too soft for the world, too sharp for the woods.
They carved me out of whispers and willow-blood,
called me divine,
then watched me rot when the winds changed tune.
I walk barefoot through ash,
where flowers forget how to bloom beneath my feet.
My laughter once lured gods, now it haunts the ravine.
I am made of things you do not write down
an elegy of hunger,
a sweetness left too long in the sun.
Call me fragile
but know, my fractures are fluent in silence.
I have loved with hands trembling like candle flames,
tended hearts that tore me in return.
My veins know abandonment in every dialect.
I’ve stitched lullabies to my scars
and kissed my monsters goodnight
with lips stitched shut.
Am i a fiction that lives in someone else’s reality?
A dream misplaced in the wrong mythos
someone’s side character,
trapped in their spotlight.
They penned me in petals but forgot my thorns,
now I bleed in cursive, alone.
I remember a time I wasn’t trembling.
Before grief hollowed my chest like a cave
and called it a cathedral.
Before I danced with death in a mirror
and asked her, politely,
“Is this the only way to be seen?”
They love a nymph when she sings
but ignore her when she shatters.
They crown the soft girl,
but bury the loud one in silence.
So I howl under moonlight too heavy to hold,
each note a rebellion,
each scream a hymn.

