echo without throat

Blades in breath— I stood, ear to the storm, tongue tethered, counting the weight of thunder before it struck the ground. A circle of mirrors, each shard with a name I used to trust. Mouths bloomed with rot masked as bloom. I chose the hush. Was it grace— or the cowardice of stone? Their roots entwine mine, yet spit bitter nectar. I watched their harvest, refused to taste. Stillness burned like salt in the mouth of the sea. But pain— pain makes no audience. And I, no creature to be fed with care. So I folded into quiet, into shadow's last language.