The Unborn Flame. Poem by MIRAK Montiel

'Dirge for the Unborn Flame'
(for Another Poem for My Demons) *

The creatures whisper my name
like a curse passed mouth to mouth
in the shadows of walls that breathe.
The others call me insane —
but what do they know
of being haunted
by something that lives inside your bones?

Maybe I'm not broken.
Maybe I was never real.
A dream dreamed by a dead god,
unraveling.

The shadows march —
faceless, endless,
and I follow barefoot into the abyss,
where even the echoes
refuse to call back.

You left
like a plague.
I stayed
like rot.

I tried to heal
with silence,
but silence grew teeth.
It devoured me slowly,
name by name.

Again, I climbed
into someone else's myth,
hoping their boat
could outrun the flood.
But I am the flood.
I sink everything I touch.

My anxiety isn't panic —
it's prophecy.
A serpent coiled in my lungs,
hissing hymns
of my inevitable ruin.

There are no pills
for a soul that's on fire.
And I lit the match
with my own hands,
smiling
as I watched myself burn.

I don't want rescue.
I want the ash.
I want the nothingness.
I want to disappear
so thoroughly
that not even memory
dares to speak my name.

Another poem,
another funeral
thrown in my own honor —
no guests,
no tears,
just me,
clapping alone
as the curtain falls.

You call it genius —
some divine madness,
but I know better.
I'm a corpse flower
that never bloomed,
buried in soil
that never wanted me.

Now I sit,
not waiting —
just fading.

The castle I built
was made of bones and sand,
and now it sinks
into the sea
like everything else
I dared to love.

This is no cry for help.
This is my lullaby.
This is the hymn
of a soul
that was never meant
to survive.