Nyx

Before there was light,
there was a mouth open in the universe
and it was called Night.

Nyx did not create the dark.
She is the dark.
The first dark.
The one that existed before fear had a name.

They say even Zeus feared her,
and I understand why.
Because what do you do
when you meet something
that cannot be killed,
cannot be persuaded,
cannot be loved into softness?

You don’t fight the night.
You survive it.

Nyx is not gentle.
She is not a soft sky full of stars.
She is the place stars are swallowed.

She is the long stretch of hours
where your thoughts turn against you.
She is the memory you cannot bury.
She is the dream that feels more real than your life.
She is the feeling of standing on the edge of something
and knowing
if you fall,
no one will hear you hit the bottom.

She has many children.
Sleep.
Death.
Fate.
Misery.
Vengeance.
Not one of them is small.

This is what people misunderstand.
Night is not empty.
Night is crowded.

It is full of ghosts,
full of teeth,
full of old gods
that no one worships anymore
but who are not dead.

Nyx does not need followers.
She does not need prayer.
Every evening the world goes dark
and that is worship enough.

And if I am honest,
I think some part of me belongs to her.

Because I have known what it is
to carry darkness
and not let it destroy me.

I have known what it is
to walk through something
that should have ended me
and come out the other side
quieter,
colder,
but still standing.

Maybe that is what it means
to be a daughter of Night.

Not bright.
Not innocent.
Not saved.

Just still here.
Still walking.
Still becoming something
the dark itself
would recognise.