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

Minds, hollowed—  
ghost-chambers echoing with voices that never meant to stay.  
They drag their claws along the skull  
just to prove they're real.  

These words don’t write.  
They convulse.  
They twist mid-thought,  
snapping like tendons in inkless pens.  

Thoughts bend—unnatural,  
like limbs forced backward in prayer.  
Each one a splinter lodged  
too deep to mourn properly.  

Pride calcifies—  
a stone swallowed out of habit,  
weighing down the throat  
until breath becomes performance.  

Deceit prowls the ribcage  
wearing kindness like a borrowed face.  
Swallow cheats  
beating empty—  
percussion without a pulse.

And still—  
the voices.  
Razor-rung, relentless.  
They gut the lungs from within,  
fill the chest with phantom limbs  
that clench when I try to rest.

This is precedent.  
This pressure.  
This loop wrapped in bonewire.  
Endless.  
Clocks without numbers,  
ticking inside the teeth.

Minds hollowed with unspeakable voices lingering.
These words are intangible.
Twining and twisting before the ink leaves the pen.
Thoughts unimaginably twisted, dwelling deeply inside.
Suffocating under stationary pride.
Predatorial deceitful.
Swallow cheats beating empty.
What a cage these undeniable voices, snaring me in.
Clawing on my inside, lungs collapsing.
This pressure precedent.
Stuck within a vortex loop , endlessly spinning out of control.

Let’s walk the wreckage barefoot,  
through memories sharp as shattered psalms—  
each bone a prayer, each scar a chorus  
echoing grief in broken qualms.  

I’ve worn collapse like second skin,  
threaded my name through rusted seams,  
carried silence in the sockets  
where I once stored softer dreams.  

Damage done, repeated scripture,  
spoken in a stranger’s tongue.  
Every wound a familiar fixture—  
every verse I’ve bitten from.  

My reflection changes nightly,  
ghosted in the glass it leaves.  
Not a stranger—just unlikely,  
just a skin I’m forced to grieve.  

I’d sail myself to nowhere lands,  
trade these thoughts for phantom seas,  
but the tide still grips with bone-split hands  
and drags me back through memories.  

These edges—thick with visual lies,  
mirrors dressed in stolen light—  
carve new truths into my eyes  
and steal the name I’d try to write.  

So don’t mistake my silence  
for surrender or for sleep—  
I’m the hymn beneath the violence,  
I’m the secret shadows keep.  

Directionless but moving still,  
with every fracture in my spine,  
toward some echo none can fill,  
toward a self that once was mine.

the hands / the bonds / the pages—  
never mine  
but bound to me like scripture I forgot to believe in.  

the verse never repeats,  
but always paints  
in colors I don’t remember choosing.  

mirrors offer nothing but  
faces that echo mine  
without ever becoming me.  

torn into fugues / scattered into names—  
each one dragging me somewhere new,  
directionless,  
but always away  
from wherever I might be.

I didn’t write this for the healed.  
I wrote this for the haunted—  
for those who stare at ceiling cracks  
like they’re reading scripture  
from a collapsed cathedral.  

These pages aren’t a map to recovery.  
They’re the wreckage.  
The bloodstains.  
The echo where a name used to fit.

Each poem a pulse.  
Each line a fragment.  
Not a solution—  
but proof the soul still bleeds in shape.

So if you're holding this,  
you’re not alone in the ruin.  
Welcome.  
Take off your armor.  
We only write in exposed nerves here.

The space between me and myself  
drifts—  
like a lucid dream  
leaking out the back of my skull.

I watch my thoughts  
float toward stars that don't remember  
where I end.  
Where I ever began.

I'm stretched across the cosmos,  
limbs limp in vacuum,  
the gravity of depression  
coiling tight around my ankles—  
its pull quiet,  
but absolute.

Reality thins  
like skin over old scars.  
My mind—a kaleidoscope of fractures.  
Each disorder twisting the glass,  
each diagnosis tinting the view  
until even my reflection feels pixelated.

This fog...  
it’s not metaphor.  
It’s a beast.  
Thick. Grey. Permanent.  
It wraps around my face  
until even breath  
becomes a rumor.

The lines blur.  
Days collapse.  
I forget the taste of clarity.  
Did I ever have a name?  
Did I ever live inside this body  
with certainty?

I am orbiting myself—  
too far to reach,  
too familiar to forget.

The silence in here  
has weight.  
It hums.  
It judges.  
It catalogs my fade  
in decibels too quiet for anyone else to hear.

Memories fade like echo trails—  
burnt-out signals  
from versions of me  
that never made it back home.

I keep screaming  
into the night of my own skull—  
but the signal never reaches Earth.  
No one hears.  
Not even me.

I am the void  
after the story ends.  
I am the silhouette  
of a soul that got left behind  
when the body forgot how to stay.

This isn’t a breakdown.  
This is drift.  
This is what happens  
when gravity gives up on you.