In the cathedral of unplugged clocks,
where seconds rot on the altar like unpicked fruit,
she arrives without footsteps,
a syllable the alphabet forgot to pronounce.
Her skull is a moon evicted from its orbit,
shorn by a blade that sang lullabies in reverse.
Every follicle a battlefield surrendered,
every pore a crater where hair once waved white flags.
The skin there drinks the light and gives nothing back,
a parchment so pale it erases the ink of history
before the pen even touches it.
Beneath the brow’s severe architecture,
two eyes smolder in slow-motion arson.
They are not brown, not black,
but the color of drowning in midnight rivers,
pupils dilated to swallow whole congregations.
They have seen the inside of every locked diary,
read the margins where God scribbled apologies
and then crossed them out.
They do not blink;
blinking would be a betrayal of the vigil.
A nose so delicate it might be rumor,
a bridge built by a cartographer who never believed
in the countries on either side.
It trembles, barely,
as though remembering the weight of a thousand masks
it finally refused to wear.
And then the mouth,
O, the mouth is a revolution in miniature.
A slash of arterial crimson
painted with the precision of a suicide note
that decided to live.
Upper lip thin as a scalpel’s promise,
lower lip swollen like a secret kept too long.
Between them, a sliver of darkness
where teeth wait like ivory piano keys
no one has been brave enough to play.
When she exhales,
the air itself blushes and looks away.
Her neck rises from the collar
like a question mark forged in alabaster,
tendons faint blue rivers under frost.
The shirt,
ah, the shirt is a prison of geometry,
white diamonds repeating into infinity,
each one a window she soldered shut
with her own fingerprints.
The fabric clings, then releases,
clings, then releases,
a heartbeat made of cotton and contempt.
Buttons undone just enough
to suggest a throat that has swallowed
every unsent voice message
the world ever left her.
Shoulders sharp as the moment before confession,
collarbones two drawn bows
waiting for arrows that never come.
Arms folded somewhere beneath the frame,
or perhaps dissolved entirely,
because who needs hands
when your presence alone can crucify a room?
Behind her, the wall is a confession in negative space,
blistered paint peeling like prophecies
no one bothered to fulfill.
Cracks spider outward
as if the plaster itself
is trying to escape the gravity of her silhouette.
A single bulb dangles,
its filament trembling like a liar
caught mid-sentence.
Light falls in sickly increments,
pooling at her feet
then retreating,
ashamed of its own inadequacy.
Dust motes orbit her
the way moons orbit dead stars,
slow, inevitable,
praying for collision.
Somewhere a pipe drips,
counting heartbeats
she no longer owns.
She is the after-image of every burning photograph,
the negative held too long to the light
until the faces inverted into gods.
She is the hush that follows
when the choir realizes
the hymn was always a dirge
and the dirge was always a love song
and the love song was always
a threat.
Stand here long enough
and you’ll feel your own color draining,
your pulse syncing to the slow drip
of whatever time she abandoned.
You’ll taste rust on your tongue,
hear your name pronounced
in a language that predates mercy.
She does not pose;
posing would be redundant.
She simply *is*,
the way winter simply *is*,
the way guillotines simply *are*,
the way silence simply *is*
after the last scream
learns its own name
and decides to keep it.
This is not a woman.
This is the moment
the mirror finally looked back
and recognized itself
as the monster.
And still she waits,
patient as frostbite,
beautiful as the last page
of a book
no one will ever finish
because the ending
would require
courage
the world
has not yet
invented.
where seconds rot on the altar like unpicked fruit,
she arrives without footsteps,
a syllable the alphabet forgot to pronounce.
Her skull is a moon evicted from its orbit,
shorn by a blade that sang lullabies in reverse.
Every follicle a battlefield surrendered,
every pore a crater where hair once waved white flags.
The skin there drinks the light and gives nothing back,
a parchment so pale it erases the ink of history
before the pen even touches it.
Beneath the brow’s severe architecture,
two eyes smolder in slow-motion arson.
They are not brown, not black,
but the color of drowning in midnight rivers,
pupils dilated to swallow whole congregations.
They have seen the inside of every locked diary,
read the margins where God scribbled apologies
and then crossed them out.
They do not blink;
blinking would be a betrayal of the vigil.
A nose so delicate it might be rumor,
a bridge built by a cartographer who never believed
in the countries on either side.
It trembles, barely,
as though remembering the weight of a thousand masks
it finally refused to wear.
And then the mouth,
O, the mouth is a revolution in miniature.
A slash of arterial crimson
painted with the precision of a suicide note
that decided to live.
Upper lip thin as a scalpel’s promise,
lower lip swollen like a secret kept too long.
Between them, a sliver of darkness
where teeth wait like ivory piano keys
no one has been brave enough to play.
When she exhales,
the air itself blushes and looks away.
Her neck rises from the collar
like a question mark forged in alabaster,
tendons faint blue rivers under frost.
The shirt,
ah, the shirt is a prison of geometry,
white diamonds repeating into infinity,
each one a window she soldered shut
with her own fingerprints.
The fabric clings, then releases,
clings, then releases,
a heartbeat made of cotton and contempt.
Buttons undone just enough
to suggest a throat that has swallowed
every unsent voice message
the world ever left her.
Shoulders sharp as the moment before confession,
collarbones two drawn bows
waiting for arrows that never come.
Arms folded somewhere beneath the frame,
or perhaps dissolved entirely,
because who needs hands
when your presence alone can crucify a room?
Behind her, the wall is a confession in negative space,
blistered paint peeling like prophecies
no one bothered to fulfill.
Cracks spider outward
as if the plaster itself
is trying to escape the gravity of her silhouette.
A single bulb dangles,
its filament trembling like a liar
caught mid-sentence.
Light falls in sickly increments,
pooling at her feet
then retreating,
ashamed of its own inadequacy.
Dust motes orbit her
the way moons orbit dead stars,
slow, inevitable,
praying for collision.
Somewhere a pipe drips,
counting heartbeats
she no longer owns.
She is the after-image of every burning photograph,
the negative held too long to the light
until the faces inverted into gods.
She is the hush that follows
when the choir realizes
the hymn was always a dirge
and the dirge was always a love song
and the love song was always
a threat.
Stand here long enough
and you’ll feel your own color draining,
your pulse syncing to the slow drip
of whatever time she abandoned.
You’ll taste rust on your tongue,
hear your name pronounced
in a language that predates mercy.
She does not pose;
posing would be redundant.
She simply *is*,
the way winter simply *is*,
the way guillotines simply *are*,
the way silence simply *is*
after the last scream
learns its own name
and decides to keep it.
This is not a woman.
This is the moment
the mirror finally looked back
and recognized itself
as the monster.
And still she waits,
patient as frostbite,
beautiful as the last page
of a book
no one will ever finish
because the ending
would require
courage
the world
has not yet
invented.
The Sunday Circle