The Girl Who Watches from Stone

I was carved to guard, not to feel.
A watcher made of stone and shadow,
perched on the throat of a cathedral,
where gargoyles cry rainwater
and centuries hum softly in my bones.
I was given fangs,
hands that grip nothing,
eyes that never close,
so I could always see.
I have watched the city dream below me.
I have seen people live and die,
kingdoms rise and turn to dust.
I thought I was meant to be forever
still, cold, untouched.

Until you.

You walked beneath me like a song
slipping through the halls of stone.
The first time your eyes met mine,
I felt warmth trickle into my marble veins.
And I began to want.
I wanted your hand against my face,
the sunlight on your breath,
the sound of your heartbeat
that felt like a prayer I was never meant to hear.

You became my ritual.
My cathedral bells.
Each time you stopped beneath my shadow,
I carved you deeper into memory
the heavy way you carried yourself,
the sadness in your smile,
the way you never looked away from me.
I thought I was frightening;
you made me believe I was beautiful.

But then she came.
A girl soft as an unfinished prayer,
too shy to meet your gaze,
and somehow she was what you wanted.
A trembling thing to hold,
while I stayed frozen,
a statue of longing
with edges too sharp to touch.

So I remain among the spires,
my wings folded in sorrow,
listening to your laughter float on the wind.
The snakes in my hair whisper to me,
and the moon paints me silver,
always too far to reach.
I was never meant to climb down.
Never meant to be yours.
Yet I was made from the same starlight
that shines in your eyes
and it was not enough.

You chose the girl who couldn’t even look in your eyes
when I’m made of the matter your eyes create.

 

IN REPLY TO MY FRIENDS, WHEN THEY ASK HOW I AM

I say I’m fine, and I try to mean it.

The truth is quieter than that

I brush my teeth twice, sometimes three times,

just to feel like something is clean.

I stare at the laundry like it’s a puzzle.

Some days, I win. Some days, I wear what’s on the floor.

I drink my coffee cold, even when it’s hot.

I rearrange books I haven’t read.

I light candles and forget them.

I rehearse answers to questions no one asks.

I hum old songs into empty rooms.

Sometimes I speak out loud,

just to see if my voice still fits.

I walk through the grocery store

like a ghost haunting someone else’s life.

I smile at strangers. I save memes.

I say “let’s catch up soon” and mean it,

but not today, maybe not next week.

I sit with silence like it’s company.

My body remembers laughter

the way walls remember music, faintly.

Grief leaks through the floorboards.

Hope shows up in strange places

a photo from 2019, a perfectly ripe peach,

a stranger’s dog that wants to be pet.

I write your names in the margins.

I pray without shape or form.

I do not ask for answers,

only for time to pass gently,

for the ache to settle

into something I can carry.

So yes

I’m fine,

and also, I am surviving.