Storms In A Cup Of Water. Poem by MIRAK Montiel

'Storms in a Cup' (Dark Version)

I live a life carved from silence—
lonely as a grave without a name.
I hunger for what kills me slowly,
and bleed in shadows
no one dares to enter.

I built this crypt myself,
stone by stone,
and now I rot beneath it,
too buried in regret
to scream.

Forty winters.
Forty endless days.
The pain never left—
it grew roots,
clawed its way into the marrow
of my dying tree,
its leaves falling like lost souls.

I knock on doors
that open just enough to taunt me.
Doubt chains my wrists.
Fear nails my feet.
And still, I turn away—
again, again,
leaving pieces of me behind
to haunt the hallways I never cross.

I am a ruin
dressed in flesh,
the only guest
at a celebration of sorrow,
raising toasts to ghosts
with storms in a cup of water.

Another page—
scratched with ink and ache.
Words that rot unread,
like prayers left
at the altar of a god
that forgot my name.