A Furnace of Crows

A poem

The featured image was created by the author using Canva and Picsart.

I seethe beneath the skin,
a furnace of crows beating
against bone, their beaks
splintering marrow, scratching
names in the sinew —
I carve out space for silence,
but they cry louder,
razor-black feathers of their rage
clinging to my ribs like rust.

My hands tremble
as if to hold a storm,
but it slips through my fingers —
thick and hot like blood,
dripping into the hollows of my palms,
and I watch it pool,
watch it pulse,
swelling like an uninvited scream.

There is a crack in me —
I feel it stretch,
open like a mouth swallowing sky,
a fissure of thirst
aching to be filled
with the marrow of others,
to swallow their light
and spit it back as knives.

The world hums
a dull, electric throb
beneath my feet.
I stand, teetering
on the lip of the abyss,
its mouth open wide,
inviting, like a lover’s smile —
and I am almost seduced
by its promise to consume me whole.

But I am fire,
and this is my burning,
and I will blaze
even when the night swallows
the stars and spits their bones
into the dark.

I am still here,
alive and cracking open
like a wound that refuses to heal,
my rage a furnace that devours
everything
except the fire.