Is this real?
Or am I just a puppet,
strings pulled tight by hands I can’t see,
dancing in a play I didn’t write,
where the applause is silence,
and the curtain never falls.
I feel my skin—raw and soft—
but it might as well be paper.
Thin. Fragile.
I could tear myself open
and still not find what’s real inside.
The world moves in slow motion,
a ghost-town carnival spinning
rusted rides and faded lights.
I see faces, but they blur,
like smudged charcoal,
like something smeared
before the artist gave up.
I hear laughter.
It cuts, jagged and wrong,
like knives scraping bone,
like a sound that forgot
what it was supposed to mean.
This can’t be real.
How could it be,
when my feet feel heavy,
like I’m sinking through the ground?
When my breath turns to smoke,
when my shadow whispers secrets
I’m too afraid to hear?
Sometimes, I swear the walls are watching.
Sometimes, I think they’re laughing.
Sometimes, I hope they’ll swallow me whole,
because at least then,
I wouldn’t have to ask—
what’s real?
Tell me,
if I rip this world apart,
will it bleed?
If I claw at the seams,
will I find the truth,
or just another lie sewn tight?
I’m tired.
So tired of this half-life,
of waking up in a dream
that feels more like a nightmare.
If this is reality,
it’s a cruel one.
If it’s not—
don’t wake me.
Let me drift into the dark,
because maybe the nothing
is more honest
than this.
s.t.