The room sinks in like a closing jaw,
baring its teeth at the things I saw;
the air tastes thick, like dust and dread,
a quiet burial for the thoughts I’ve bled.
Nights here stretch with a strangled grin,
a taut black thread pulling tight on skin;
the light on the ceiling hums low and bleak,
like it’s mocking the words I do not speak.
My mind is a cellar stacked with bones -
old decisions rattling in undertones;
they shuffle and clatter in the gloom,
staking their claim on this padded tomb.
Shadows drip down the walls like tar,
slow, deliberate, never far;
they curl around me, thin and sly,
counting the breaths I barely get by.
I feel like a fault line waiting to break,
a silent tremor under a frozen lake;
one wrong thought and the surface cracks,
letting the cold crawl up my back.