They built roads over my bones.

Called them “paths.”

They planted gardens over the graves of names

I still remember.

Once, I was a secret.

Now I am only silence that stares back.

A door creaks. Not open—just remembering the sound.

He tied me to the twilight.

Not with chains—no.

With promises.

With pity.

I wore his leash like lace.

I let him believe I sang for him.

But I sing because the trees demand it.

Because roots thirst for memory.

The leash doesn’t chafe anymore.

That’s how you know it’s part of you now.

You look at me like I’m still a woman.

But I’ve been moss and marrow far longer than flesh.

You ask for truth?

The truth is this:

There is no freedom for what was born wild.

Only a cage wide enough to almost forget.

And when you hear a voice in the branches—

You should not follow it.

My sisters wear foxglove smiles.

My brothers speak in bird-bone riddles.

I danced once with a god made of mist.

He vanished before the second step.

You’ve seen me.

In the shimmer of heat on stone.

In the gleam between blink and shadow.

I’ve always been there.

That feeling of being watched

when the mirror fogs…

when the path forks…

when the forest hushes.

Say my name, and nothing will answer.

But everything will listen.

The wind carries my lullaby,

even when I’ve forgotten the words.

And if you find yourself lost—

Utterly, sweetly lost—

Then I’m already with you.