BY SOPHIA ERDOGAN
Copyright is held by the author.
I see her sometimes.
a shadow slipping past mirrors,
bone-white and weightless,
all sharp edges and quiet victories.
Her cold hands proof of control.
She whispers in hunger pangs,
soft as a lover’s breath,
She hums in the hollow of my ribs,
She sings in the shiver of my spine.
I do not answer her.
But some nights,
I trace the memory of collarbones
like a map back to a place
I should never return.
And still,
when the stillness wraps around me,
I mourn the ghost of her,
even as I pray she stays dead.
***
Sophia Erdogan is a 17-year-old Turkish-Canadian poet from Ontario. She writes with a focus on memory, identity, and the connections people share, all driven by her love of language. This is her first publication.
Beautifully written. I love the imagery.