I
In the house of sighs, she lit the wick—
moon-eyed, hush-hymned,
cloaked in crêpe of cope
(a shroud she stitched herself).
A bonfire of silk apologies,
kindled by her matchstick sorrow.

---

When the roof spat soot and grief,
she danced among ashes—
chanting trauma-trauma like tambourine,
a dirge of didn’t-mean-to—
while the neighbors wept in buckets,
their tears slick fuel for her next performance.

---

II
Said she:
“I suffer from kaleidopsyche,
the glass-splinter mind disease.
My heart’s a moth in pyre winds,
its wings singed by the blaze I breathe.
Don’t blame me—I bruise when looked at.”

---

But the smoke was of her perfume.
The screams—her voicemail rehearsals.
The burnt bed bore her lipstick on both pillows.
Yet she wept like a widow,
though no one had died but truth.

---

III
She builds blame-balloons,
hot air spun from her own lungs—
“Gaslit!”—“Oppressed!”—“Mental health spiral!”
They burst in the sky of public pity
as she curtsies in curated tears,
dressed in drama’s bridal veil.

---

In the court of common sense, she pleads
“Madness!” like a mantra.
But the jury sees her matchbox fingers—
and the kerosene smile behind.

---

IV
Oh Guiltless Ghost!
With what velvet do you mask fire?
Your crocodile clinic, your tearflood theater—
We are not fooled.
You are the arsonist in angel’s apron,
the siren in sympathy’s shroud.

---

Let truth, like wind, scatter your costume:
behind the veil, the spark still glows.
And we, the watchers, will not unsee—
the ash on your fingernails,
the cinders in your lullaby.

---

V
Let her not say
As if she suffered
When she built the cage
with nails of her own forging
and called it youthhood.

Let her not say
As if she bled
When the knife was in her hand,
and she carved the script
in a mirror’s cold reflection.

---

—End—