BIRTHDAYS

Birthdays,
rolling in faster every year,
dragging their long shadows behind them.

Something terrible
always circles back.

The innocence fled early,
left me sleepless
in a cold room of memories turned nightmares.

I still hear younger laughter
through half-lit hallways, like ghosts through another house—

sugar-stained fingers, small hands,
bright candles,
warm lights in winter windows.
The world untouched by dread.

Time bruises in unknowing ways.

Memory decays softly.

Now I grow flowers alone,
watering them with versions of myself I no longer recognize.

No candles to burn.
Only silence waiting in the walls.

Getting older
feels like watching winter
move into the bones.