𝒒𝒖𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒓𝒐

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Echoes from poisoned tongues

slipped through the flimsy walls,

warping memory

into the taste of bitter screams.

Words that cut deeper

than sticks and stones

slithered

into the serpent of all hearts.

They seeped into veins,

twisting golden soul-light

into ink—

thick with guilt and shame.

Like shattered glass,

or the quake of grief,

they rumble through the body

until rain

becomes

a storm

of fluttering pain.

Down,

down,

down

—to the sea of broken wings.

You stare into the mirror,

chasing perfection's ghost—

longing to be the monarch

of every impossible expectation,

the throne worthy of love.


But the flames breathe closer

when you forget to inhale.


And these walls—

they rage.

They feast on the tears

of the one who dared to feel.

To be a nightingale—

singing through

the endless night

of melancholy

and forced delight.

                    𓆰𓆪

Burning Behind the Mirror


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