The Stain Within does often weep,
It festers where no light can creep,
A pulse of red, a wound too deep,
It often crawls, while wounds they seep,
The mind, a cage, replays the act
The scream, the snap, the world intact.
No grave can hold the truth’s decay,
It claws, it whispers, night and day.
The mirror shows a stranger’s grin,
The blood’s not hers—it lives within.
Each step, a thread, unravels sane,
The self dissolves in scarlet stain.
No absolution, only dread
The murdered live; the killer’s dead.