In a city of neon,

with broken hearts and colder tongues,

she walks alone with poison dreams

curled quiet in her lungs.

The night inhales her shadow

and coughs her name in smoke,

a prayer lost to sirens,

a memory she never spoke.

Each breath, a little dagger,

each step, a thread unwound—

she’s stitched from fallen starlight

and silence she never found.

So she whispers to the darkness,

not hoping to be heard:

“Even poison feels like comfort

when you’ve swallowed every word.”