The room keeps slightly bending at the corners after dark,
Like the walls have lost conviction, losing outline, losing mark,
Every clock develops tremors like a cheap exhausted spark,
And the silence spreads beneath me like a flooded park.
I can feel my mind unbutton somewhere deep behind the eyes,
Like wet wallpaper curling while a ruined building dries,
Thoughts arrive malformed and fevered in delirious disguise,
And the names I used to worship now sound distant, dead, and wise.
The show must go on —
What a brutal thing to say,
Like a person can outsing the rot that’s eating them away,
So I stand beneath the spotlight while my hands begin to shake,
And pretend I’m still a person for the audience’s sake.
I have started fearing mirrors for the mercy that they lack,
How they hold me in their surface like a thing they won’t give back,
My reflection lags behind me like a shadow gone off-track,
Like it’s learning how to live once my mind goes fully black.
And God — the repetition of the supermarket glow,
The television flickering like a river running beneath the snow,
Human voices flatten slowly into static, dull and low,
Till every word resembles something buried long ago.
Some nights I hear my father in the plumbing of the walls,
Not speaking — just existing in the water when it calls,
And I sit there in the kitchen while the yellow ceiling crawls,
Feeling pieces of my memory loosen softly from their stalls.
The show must go on still, though the script has come apart,
Though there’s broken radio towers throwing sparks across my heart,
Though my thoughts now move like insects in a mason jar of dark,
And the person I once was has disappeared without a mark.
So I smile when people ask me if I’m doing well these days,
While the world grows slightly stranger in a hundred subtle ways,
And somewhere underneath the noise, beneath the traffic’s endless blaze,
I can hear my mind collapsing to a slow electrical haze.
7d ago
May 29, 2026 at 6:45 AM UTC
The room keeps slightly bending at the corners after dark,
Like the walls have lost conviction, losing outline, losing mark,
Every clock develops tremors like a cheap exhausted spark,
And the silence spreads beneath me like a flooded park.
I can feel my mind unbutton somewhere deep behind the eyes,
Like wet wallpaper curling while a ruined building dries,
Thoughts arrive malformed and fevered in delirious disguise,
And the names I used to worship now sound distant, dead, and wise.
The show must go on —
What a brutal thing to say,
Like a person can outsing the rot that’s eating them away,
So I stand beneath the spotlight while my hands begin to shake,
And pretend I’m still a person for the audience’s sake.
I have started fearing mirrors for the mercy that they lack,
How they hold me in their surface like a thing they won’t give back,
My reflection lags behind me like a shadow gone off-track,
Like it’s learning how to live once my mind goes fully black.
And God — the repetition of the supermarket glow,
The television flickering like a river running beneath the snow,
Human voices flatten slowly into static, dull and low,
Till every word resembles something buried long ago.
Some nights I hear my father in the plumbing of the walls,
Not speaking — just existing in the water when it calls,
And I sit there in the kitchen while the yellow ceiling crawls,
Feeling pieces of my memory loosen softly from their stalls.
The show must go on still, though the script has come apart,
Though there’s broken radio towers throwing sparks across my heart,
Though my thoughts now move like insects in a mason jar of dark,
And the person I once was has disappeared without a mark.
So I smile when people ask me if I’m doing well these days,
While the world grows slightly stranger in a hundred subtle ways,
And somewhere underneath the noise, beneath the traffic’s endless blaze,
I can hear my mind collapsing to a slow electrical haze.