When the pale guest knocks, let the bolt slide back;
tell him I have been waiting in the shadows.
If he asks what I sought in the light,
tell him I only ever wanted less.
Less of the static, the storm inside the skull,
less of the pretense that every wound
carries the weight of a lesson.
I am tired of justifying a seat at a table
in a room I never asked to enter.
And if he wonders why the fire is low,
tell him that life took its fill,
it reached inside and scooped the marrow,
wringing me like linen until the well ran dry.
The ledger is clear; the vessel is empty.
Tell him I am ready to be still.