The library of years burns behind me,
smoke curling through the room where I stand,
and I chew the binding of every book
until the leather splits,
until the spine gives way.
My stomach is a hollow bell,
ringing with each breath I take.
I fear the final punctuation—
that sudden stop,
that period dragged across the page.
A million versions of my face
press against the glass,
and beyond them silhouettes of futures
try to pass,
trying to slip away.
The map exceeds the dirt on which I stand.
I reach for everything I see,
fingers trembling,
and the terror of the empty page
bites my heel.
I want to taste the metal.
I want to swallow the fire.
I want to chew on steel until my teeth ring.
The clock is just a circle
where the hours go to die,
and I refuse—
I refuse—
to be a whisper,
to be a quiet lie.
This hunger is a beast
that lives in the house of mirrors where I run,
corridors stretching,
pacing the floors of my skull,
outrunning fears.
I want the whole of history.
I want the light and the heat of it.
I won’t accept the logic of a body
under a sheet.
Give me more of everything
before the candle slips.
I’ll drink the wine of existence
through my bloody lips.
The fork in every road
is just a knife against my dry throat—
desperate, hungry.
I refuse to let a moment’s potential
die before I’ve touched it.
Infinity of choices
sits on my chest like a stone,
and I find no sanctuary,
no fucking rest.
The ink stays wet upon the map
of everything I crave.
I will not be a quiet mark
inside a narrow grave.
The mirror shows a man who wants
to swallow up the sun,
and I will run this race
until every age is won.
The hunger is a debt
I can never fully pay.
I scream my desperation
until the ending of the day—
no peace in plenty
when the void is always near.
I conquer every second
through the filter of my fear.