Hellebore

I linger between
the ache of sorrow
and the numb paralysis
of mourning.

The ghosts here slither —
caught like a whimper
where breath and grief
hold each other,
quiet and familiar —
yet somehow strangers
in a melancholy
embrace.

A susurrus of life
and the allure of decay —
slowly unravelling,
hellebore
weaving its roots
into my skull.

Profane,
and still —
the brokenness
almost feels holy.

Like a helpless sob
in the breathless dark,
that doesn’t sound like me
at all.