They said,  
“time heals everything.”  
But I bled out in the waiting.

So I opened the promise like a body—  
scalpel truth,  
steady hands,  
no anesthesia.

What I found inside was worse  
than emptiness.  
It was intention.  
A fabrication shaped like comfort,  
wrapped in silence  
so we’d never call it cruelty.

This lie was passed down—  
ritualistic,  
well-meaning,  
loaded with poison  
sweet enough to swallow.

I kept it in my chest for years.  
Let it nest between lungs  
as if belief was supposed to bruise.

Now I extract it  
line by trembling line.

Even hope can rot  
if left unsaid too long.

They told me confusion was weakness.  
But I’ve made temples from tangled thoughts.  
Scriptures written in static.  
Faith practiced in contradiction.

My truth doesn’t wear straight lines.  
It spirals—  
curved like grief,  
crooked like survival.

Inside this head,  
reality is a negotiation.  
Each thought barters  
with the one before it—  
nothing certain,  
everything sacred.

I forget who I was yesterday,  
but I remember the sound  
of my own scream  
echoing through  
fractured time signatures.

It’s not madness.  
It’s devotion.  
To endure  
in chaos  
and still hum  
my own name.

So when I say I believe in nothing  
but motion,  
fracture,  
and delirium—

Understand:  
this is my doctrine.  
This is my rite.

They only see the version  
that didn’t scream.  
The one who smiled  
because silence had sharper teeth.

Behind this grin:  
razorwire laughter,  
polished to deflect inquiry.  
A thousand masks  
stitched from survival.

I learned to dance  
in venom shoes—  
every step a negotiation  
with ghosts no one else sensed.

It’s not deception.  
It’s preservation.  
A camouflage of grace  
in a world that punishes visible pain.

But under this costume,  
the truth foams at the seams.  
Grief behind gloss.  
Fury in a silk-lined sigh.

This is the masquerade  
you demanded I wear.  
But I warn you—  
the fabric’s unraveling.

And when it falls,  
don’t flinch at the fangs.  
They were always there.  
You just didn’t want to look.

Silence wasn’t empty.  
It was alive.  
Thick with what no one could say,  
what I never dared to ask.

It filled the room  
like smoke after prayer,  
curling around my ribs  
until I forgot how to breathe without holding back.

I thought it was safety—  
this quiet.  
But it was a verdict  
disguised as peace.

And when I finally listened,  
I heard everything I tried to bury:  
the grief,  
the want,  
the name I refused to speak.

Silence didn’t spare me.  
It kept score.

I keep floating  
in the aftermath of what I never said.  
Words left sealed inside  
tight as a vacuum-packed wound.

I orbit old versions of myself—  
each more silent than the last.  
None of them landed  
where the heart was supposed to beat.

Nothing holds me down here.  
Not guilt.  
Not grace.  
Just this feeling  
of breath stretched too thin  
across memory.

My pulse drifts  
in low tide,  
no gravity to pull it home.

Even love feels hypothetical—  
a theory abandoned by every scientist  
who tried to measure my pain.

So I write  
just to hear an echo.  
Just to remind myself  
that silence isn’t the only thing  
still alive in me.

Head spinning—  
dazed in this stormcloud of confusion.  
It isn’t fog.  
It’s a maze made of color and collapse.

Every turn—  
a new place with no map,  
no anchor,  
just faces too blurred to remember,  
yet somehow still watching.

Voices press in,  
muffling thought.  
Every word I reach for  
chokes in the static.  
Reality fades—  
peeling off in shards.

All that’s left  
are shattered echoes,  
broken memories  
calling from somewhere  
I can’t return to.

Meaning sinks beneath the sorrow.  
Hollowed out.  
Spun dry.  
Still standing  
inside the labyrinth.

Shadows rot beneath my ribs, panic waltzes razor-thin  
Voices in my head clash—battle cries where night begins  
Strangers drive my bones toward the edge I forgot  
Mirror swallows me whole—no rescue from glass  

Who am I? Splitting to survive  
One soul, fractures come alive  
Internal kingdoms burn while the pieces wage blood  
Heavy weights crush the beating flood  

Synapse cracked open, thunder in my veins  
Cycling through faces, chaos loves its chains  
Masks devour each other—nothing stops the spin  
Identity dislocated—where do I end or begin?  

Rage erupts—fists pound the void, chaotic stream  
Shell of a thought, stitched inside this dream  
A hundred voices rise, all tugging at the seam  
Freedom not freedom—it weeps in the scheme  

Who am I? Splitting to survive  
One soul, fractures come alive  
Internal kingdoms burn while the pieces wage blood  
Heavy weights crush the beating flood  

Truth bleeds out through prisms cracked and cruel  
Clock ticks backward—reality’s duel  
Mind’s a maze—no compass, no absolution  
Screams starve in silence—dose me with dissolution