When the room forgets your name,
and shadows press
through the cracks in the door,
do you hold your breath
or let it shatter
into splinters of silence?

The mirror sees you—
not the face you polish
for the world,
but the one carved
in fractures too deep to mend.

Do you carry the weight
of every unsent letter?
Or leave them scattered—
paper ghosts curling
on the cold floor?

When the night leans close,
does your voice break
against the dark,
its edges rough,
its truths sharp
as bone beneath skin?

The sky asks nothing.
It only watches
as you slip the mask loose,
let ribbons fall
and shadow your reflection.

Still, the stars hum
their distant refrain,
their secrets untouchable—
but the wind whispers
of who you might be.

"Do you see her?"
the darkness murmurs,
and for a breath,
you almost do.