Midnight on the Stairs
Midnight on the Stairs
Hands plunged wrist-deep into scalding water,
soap suds hiss and burst like fragile vows breaking,
steam rises hot and metallic against my cheeks.
I murmur to dust motes drifting in the bulb’s amber haze—
their slow golden waltz lets my voice taste real again.Ash powders my apron like cool velvet grief,
gray bleeding into faded lavender seams,
a wish trembling on frayed thread.
I slip into a daydream thick as warm honey over cracked porcelain—
a world scented with cedar smoke and night jasmine,
visible only when my eyes close tight.I’m more than cinders ground into cold slate,
more than every door that slammed bone-deep and stayed shut.Laughter slices the corridor like winter nettles dragged across skin,
each barbed name leaving hot red welts under my collarbone.
I thread moonlight through torn fabric, needle pricking calloused fingertips—
self-kindness is the slow suture that quiets the sting,
the soft bandage I wrap around yesterday’s hurt.Stars gouged deep into ceiling plaster catch the moon’s pale milk-light,
a wild carriage sketched in charcoal cracks and frost-kissed breath.
I lean into fogged mirror, exhale roses of steam across cold glass,
and swear—voice low, tasting salt and iron—
this fire will temper me, not reduce me to ash.I’m more than cinders ground into cold slate—
more than echoes of every door that crashed and locked.Glass kisses stone—icy, ringing, bright as struck flint on flint.
A shiver races up my spine like cold mercury.
One deliberate step forward splits the air with a sharp, clean snap.
If the slipper fits or shatters in my palm,
I cradle the jagged edges—blood-warm, glittering like crushed starlight—
and still choose to rise, toes curling against worn oak grain.No crown was ever lowered with gentle hands.
I forge it myself from silence hammered thin as silver leaf,
wear it low and fierce—lit from the marrow outward,
a steady glow that smells of cedar embers and new rain.I’m more than cinders ground into cold slate—
more than every door that ever slammed and swore.
They can chain the attic, swallow the brass key in darkness—
I’ll glide through splintered shadows, barefoot and sure.
If the world keeps its blind gaze turned away,
I’ll blaze at midnight—sharp silver fire—on the stairs.(And long after the clock has bled twelve chimes into silence,
I keep rising—quiet, radiant, salt-tongued and starlit,
entirely my own.)
Hands plunged wrist-deep into scalding water,
soap suds hiss and burst like fragile vows breaking,
steam rises hot and metallic against my cheeks.
I murmur to dust motes drifting in the bulb’s amber haze—
their slow golden waltz lets my voice taste real again.Ash powders my apron like cool velvet grief,
gray bleeding into faded lavender seams,
a wish trembling on frayed thread.
I slip into a daydream thick as warm honey over cracked porcelain—
a world scented with cedar smoke and night jasmine,
visible only when my eyes close tight.I’m more than cinders ground into cold slate,
more than every door that slammed bone-deep and stayed shut.Laughter slices the corridor like winter nettles dragged across skin,
each barbed name leaving hot red welts under my collarbone.
I thread moonlight through torn fabric, needle pricking calloused fingertips—
self-kindness is the slow suture that quiets the sting,
the soft bandage I wrap around yesterday’s hurt.Stars gouged deep into ceiling plaster catch the moon’s pale milk-light,
a wild carriage sketched in charcoal cracks and frost-kissed breath.
I lean into fogged mirror, exhale roses of steam across cold glass,
and swear—voice low, tasting salt and iron—
this fire will temper me, not reduce me to ash.I’m more than cinders ground into cold slate—
more than echoes of every door that crashed and locked.Glass kisses stone—icy, ringing, bright as struck flint on flint.
A shiver races up my spine like cold mercury.
One deliberate step forward splits the air with a sharp, clean snap.
If the slipper fits or shatters in my palm,
I cradle the jagged edges—blood-warm, glittering like crushed starlight—
and still choose to rise, toes curling against worn oak grain.No crown was ever lowered with gentle hands.
I forge it myself from silence hammered thin as silver leaf,
wear it low and fierce—lit from the marrow outward,
a steady glow that smells of cedar embers and new rain.I’m more than cinders ground into cold slate—
more than every door that ever slammed and swore.
They can chain the attic, swallow the brass key in darkness—
I’ll glide through splintered shadows, barefoot and sure.
If the world keeps its blind gaze turned away,
I’ll blaze at midnight—sharp silver fire—on the stairs.(And long after the clock has bled twelve chimes into silence,
I keep rising—quiet, radiant, salt-tongued and starlit,
entirely my own.)
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