Book I: Of Hunger
Psalm I. The Starvation Game
She starved at the table of touch.
Every smile was rationed.
She learned to chew absence,
to swallow glances like crumbs.
The hunger taught her
that even neglect has calories.
Psalm II. The Mouth as Wound
The mouth opens for speech,
but bleeds instead.
Desire leaks, iron-tasting.
A kiss is just a suture failing.
What is voiced is not heard,
what is heard is not held.
Psalm III. Banquet of Absence
We sit around a feast of plates.
The cutlery gleams with nothing.
We praise the spread of air,
raise a toast to lack.
Our bellies groan like choirs,
our hollow becomes our hymn.
Psalm IV. The Body as Empty House
Her ribs are doorframes,
her lungs the dusty halls.
Every step echoes.
She lies in bed with drafts for companions,
the wallpaper peeling like memory.
Hunger is not only of the stomach,
but of the rooms no one enters.
Psalm V. Communion of Ash
They offered her bread
that dissolved into soot.
They poured her wine
that tasted of vinegar and stone.
Even the sacraments
were counterfeit nourishment.
Still, she ate—
because ritual fills
what touch abandons.
Book II: Of Rivalry
Psalm VI. The Other Sue’s Triumph
In dream, Sue rose—
sharp-tongued, victorious.
The script bent towards her.
She crowned herself
with his indecision,
and told the crowds: he will always return.
Who stood there unscripted?
One background girl without dialogue.
Her perfection was paper,
her victory pre-written.
Yet the sting was real.
Even cardboard queens
can cut when pressed against skin.
Another she woke
heavy with a skull of static.
Her voice was only hers,
echoed from within.
Psalm VII. The Theater of Comparison
Every stage is lit for two girls:
one adorned, one waiting.
One Sue, bathed in spotlight, radiant.
One girl rehearsing refusal in the wings.
Some rehearsed refusal behind the curtain.
But the audience still measured her
against the script they adored.
How do you outshine
a character built to never fail?
Psalm VIII. She Who Won Nothing, Yet Still Feared Losing
The prize was already hollow,
a paper crown on a flimsy head.
Still, she trembled at the thought
of it being handed elsewhere.
What is more humiliating
than craving the validation
of a story you don’t even believe in?
She clutched the absence like a relic,
terrified of being cut from a plot
that was never worth reading.
Even worthless prizes
bruise the hand that reaches.
Even if hollow, crowns
leave marks on the forehead.
Book III: Of Collapse
Psalm IX. The Spine Bent in April
Cysts like hidden altars,
pained prayers curled inside tissue.
The body breaks quietly—
vertebrae as reluctant disciples,
kneeling under invisible weight.
Psalm X. The Heavy Head at Dawn
Sleep offered no mercy.
Dreams pressed against her temples,
turning skull into coffin.
She rose with dizziness,
the day already static,
as if grief had a gravity.
Psalm XI. The Refusal to Heal
They asked her to mend.
She chose the wound as relic.
She kissed its rawness,
guarded it like scripture.
Healing felt like betrayal—
as though erasing the scar
would erase the girl, too.
Psalm XII. Liturgy of Vertigo
The room spun like incense smoke,
walls swayed like drunk apostles.
Each step was a sermon in collapse,
each breath a tremor.
Even stillness buckled.
The ground became a false prophet,
promising balance, never giving it.
Psalm XIII. Sickbed
Pill bottles lined her nightstand
like votive candles.
She whispered to them,
half-prayer, half-bargain.
The sheets grew heavy,
a shroud rehearsing early.
Collapse was not sudden—
it arrived like scripture,
verse by verse, body undone.
Book IV: Of Sacred Refusal
Psalm XIV. The Refusal to be Chosen
She stepped out of the lottery of men.
No more raffles of touches,
no more trembling tickets.
To be picked is still to be owned.
She untethered herself
from the hunger to be wanted.
Psalm XV. The Refusal of Forgiveness
They preached apology as cure.
But forgiveness felt like ash—
a way to pretend harm
was never carved into bone.
She chose silence as her gospel,
her no as her halo.
Psalm XVI. The Refusal to Continue
Halfway through the play
She walked offstage.
The audience gasped.
The curtains never fell.
Let the scene rot unfinished—
She no longer bound to any script.
Psalm XVII. The Refusal of Beauty
They begged her to soften,
to polish her edges
for easier handling.
But beauty is another leash,
a gloss over the wound.
She stayed jagged,
choosing the raw face of refusal,
not the ornament of survival.
Psalm XVIII. The Refusal of Resurrection
They wanted her to rise again,
to prove the strength of return.
But she refused Ascension.
She stayed in the tomb’s embrace,
not as corpse, not as miracle—
but as refusal itself,
sacred in staying down.
Book V: Of Liminal Light
Psalm XIX. The Girl as Hunger, Again
She circled back to famine.
But this time, hunger was not shame—
it was proof of living,
a holy craving unfulfilled.
She is shaped by lack,
but not destroyed by it.
Psalm XX. The Sacred Refusal Blossoms
From the wound, a garden.
Not healing, but flowering.
Refusal sprouted petals,
each one a different no.
Her collapse grew roots,
and the roots tore the stage apart.
Psalm XXI. Benediction of the Unfinished
Amen is whispered,
but never lands.
She closes her palms around absence,
raise it like a prayer.
The undone girl remains undone—
not ruined, but eternal,
unfinished as scripture,
holy in refusal.
Psalm XXII. The Candle at Threshold
Between and betwixt the pauses,
she carried a single flame.
It flickered with each hesitation,
but never died.
Not quite light, not quite dark—
a liminal blaze,
a refusal to belong
to either end of the day.
Psalm XXIII. Beatitude of the Unchosen
Blessed be ye daughters that turn away,
that remain unfinished, unclaimed.
Blessed be the silence
that refuseth to resolve.
Blessed be the hunger
that becometh song.
Blessed be the collapse
that bringeth forth refusal.
Blessed be the undone,
holy in their incompletion.
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