A boy whistling in the graveyard,
like he ain’t scared of what breathes under dirt,
like silence don’t whisper his name back.

Low hum in his chest,
808 heartbeat,
cracked rhythm, no soul, just static.

He said he died once,
but ain’t see no light,
just shadows hugging tighter than love ever did,
But nothing ever holds.

He laughs, fake,
like he rehearsed it in the mirror,
like he forgot what real sounds like.

Graves all around him,
but he the only one buried.

Thinking ‘bout his past,
thinking ‘bout what he ain’t fix,
questions looping like a track that never drops.

“Was it my fault?”
Echo.
No answer.
Just wind cutting through teeth.

He keeps whistling.

Louder now.

Like if he fills the air enough,
he won’t hear what’s crawling closer,
won’t feel what’s already inside.