I stitch the dawn with bleeding thumbs,
sweat pearls on bruised collarbones—
your breakfast, your glory, your quiet.
You wear my hours like a sovereign’s cloak,
call it love while the clock gnaws my spine.
I birth the milk, the mercy, the mirage;
you sip, you sign, you sleep.
My rage is a red thread in the dishwater,
a witch-song rising, raw, unrehearsed:
every kiss you count, I carve back in bone.