Am I the monster I’ve been hiding from?
Or the echo of screams I hush in my lungs?
Can’t outrun a shadow stitched to my spine,
Can’t fake a sunrise when the dark’s still mine.

Each time I stitch the wound,
it splits somewhere new
a bleeding trail down a road I never knew.
I thought I was healing, thought I was whole,
but maybe I’ve just been patching a soul
with tape made of hope and silence and sin,
walking a path where I leave pieces of skin.

I turn around,
and the girl I was is scattered
like glass in the gravel,
every step shatters.

Was I ever moving forward?
Or just spinning in place,
gasping for breath in God’s empty space?
Do I restart this war with no map in hand,
or do I sink in silence like wet-packed sand?

If I drown this time
will the weight let go?
Or will my goodbye
just echo below?