To Her
To the one who became the ink before I knew how to write. You are the "Prevalence" that filled my silent room when the world felt like a "Graveyard." These words—these hundred-plus echoes of my soul—were born in the "Pale Light" of midnights, written while the "Dumb Ghosts" of the house watched in silence. I have used your memory as an "Ingredient" to understand the "Symmetry" of pain. Every line here is a "Surgical Strike" against the void; a "Fragile Sanity" held together by the sound of your name. I do not write these to "Catch" you anymore, for I have learned that the "Heart knows the way home". I write these to honor the "Metamorphosis" you triggered in me. You were the "Sleet" that froze my world, but also the "Sun" that taught me how to burn. To the Muse of my Underground: This is the record of how I survived.