The End Times

The world did not shatter—it choked,

Green tendrils creeping through fractured bones,

Whispering through the ruins,

Roots twisting in hollow skulls,

Blooming where the bodies fell.

They called it a sickness,

But sickness does not whisper your name,

Does not slither through your veins like liquid shadow,

Does not wait—patient, pulsing, alive.

I should be theirs.

The vines should have swallowed me whole,

Wrapped tight around my mind,

Turned my hands into weapons,

My voice into theirs.

But I remain.

Half of something, half of nothing,

A glitch in the pattern,

A breath between screams.

I am hunted, hated, feared.

A warning. A mistake. A monster waiting to bloom.

And yet—

Deep in my bones, I feel it stir.

A root takes hold, a whisper grows louder.

I am not theirs,

But I am not mine, either.

Not yet.