I always let the ego speak,
its voice of shattered mirrors
and lips that never quiet.
But the poem is something else:
a refuge of monsters,
where the flesh of fear
learns to pronounce its name.

The light scorches,
oblong and pure,
tearing apart the shadow I thought was mine.
It is the truth:
a burning blade that does not console,
a justice that asks for no permission,
but burns,
but aches,
until it leaves me blank.

And in that maskless void,
who speaks now?