The gods do not speak to me.

They press their silence into my bones,

stone on spine, oath on tongue,

until I am only an altar.

I sit where the light spills thin as breath,

two moons watching

with the patience of graves,

and wait for the hour

when my blood will be worth the spilling.

The cat beside me knows nothing

of how martyrs are made.

It begins with a blade,

or a prayer,

or a single choice

that rots into forever.