I used to leave a porch light on,
just in case the night forgot its way.
But now I sleep in pitch,
no beacon, no welcome.
Only the hum of streetlamps
flickering like old grief.

She—
or it, or whatever haunts my ribs now—
used to laugh like wind through chimes,
filling the silence between prayers
I never said out loud.
Now the wind just breaks windows
and whispers cruel things through the cracks.

Illinois swallowed something sacred that day.
I don’t go near the overpass anymore.
The guardrails still hold teethmarks
and the sun won’t rise there right.
Not since that afternoon
when sirens replaced birdsong
and time melted
into a puddle I never stepped over.

People still wave like I’m whole.
Like I’m made of bones and smiles
and not just scaffolding wrapped in old clothes.
I nod. I wave.
But inside, I’m a chalk outline
where something used to stand tall.

I tend to the garden still.
But the tomatoes rot early
and the lilies bloom too late.
It’s all off rhythm,
like the universe forgot the beat
the day the sky stopped answering me.

There was a voice once,
small and wild,
that called me something soft—
something only mine.
Now, no one dares speak that name.
Not even me.

I am not angry at the wind.
I am not angry at the asphalt.
I am not angry at the glass.
I am angry at the light.
Because it left.

And I stayed.