In the shadows of the marketplace,
where whispers dress the air,
I’m the ghost slipping silently,
a specter of the dare.
Chapsticks, trinkets, earrings,
lost in the clutch of greed,
it’s not the shine of the taken–
it’s the rush that I need.
I exist in the grip,
in the silent cheer of theft,
in the heartbeat skip,
when I’m deft.
It’s the pulse of the forbidden,
where my secrets are kept,
in the drawers unopened,
where the quiet things slept.
Each item a victory,
each conquest a score,
small shiny proofs
that I am something more.
Not the value, not the cost,
but the thrill of the claim,
the world in my pocket,
unnamed.
And so I haunt the edges,
where morality thins,
finding freedom
in the weight of small sins.
Each object a whisper,
each steal a confess,
of a life too tangled
in the webs of excess.
So I’ll keep on taking,
keep on hiding my tracks,
in the thrill of the moment,
the act.
But behind each little victory,
behind each small escape,
is the shadow of longing
I can’t reshape.