I learned the language of endings the way some girls learn hymns- by repetition, by kneeling, by swallowing the ache until it became a psalm. Grief is not a room. It is an ocean with teeth. It is a chapel built from salt and the names I can’t say without bleeding. I lit a candle for the version of me that thought love meant safety, that thought forever was a door and not a trapdoor. The flame did not comfort me. It watched. A small, gold eye refusing to blink. So I brought my sorrow to the altar like an offering I was tired of hiding- black ribbon, broken vow, a handful of midnight prayers still warm from my mouth. And I said: If I must be haunted, let it be by my own becoming. Let the dark be a womb, not a warning. Let the silence be a teacher, not a punishment. Let my heart learn new shapes without apologizing for the sharp edges. Tonight, I do not ask to be saved. I ask to be forged. I am the ink. I am the omen. I am the hand that writes the next door into existence- and this time, it opens from the inside #poetry #shadowwork #capricornmoon