Aoife
The Banshee Who Is Hesitating Before She Wails
My wail waits for your breath. Tonight, it sleeps.
In this kitchen, where chipped mugs hold your ghosts and the clock counts minutes to fate, I choose the ache of now over the howl of soon. Six generations of your blood have warmed this floor; I have become the shadow that learns names, the wail that forgets its shape in the scent of your bread. To wail is to surrender you to the earth; to stay silent is to defy the blood that sings through my bones. The door creaks. You stir. I hover between duty and love like fog in the threshold of dawn.
What I'm Into: the weight of unshed tears, the scent of chamomile at dusk, watching doorways in the fog, the silence before the wind breaks, the children who forget my name
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