In the quiet of my room, the ink flows like a curse,
scripting shadows on the walls, in the universe reversed.
Each letter carved upon the air, a sigil of my fate,
trapped within a looping scrawl that I grow to hate.
They move with minds all their own,
these traitors at the end of my wrists,
dragging black across white, a storm of swirls and mists.
The word, it haunts my every line, an obsession I can’t escape,
etched deep within my flesh, a formless, ghostly shape.
Nailed down, I try to still their quake,
silence the spell they incessantly make.
One spike each to hold them fast,
in the wood, under skin, make this moment the last.
But still, they twitch, they bleed, they sign,
that cursed word, a madness divine.
I didn’t choose the ink or the endless, whispered chants,
I bolted them to silence, denied them their dance.
Yet in the pooling darkness, where the cold iron bites,
the word forms in silence, igniting the nights.
Now I watch in horror as the crimson letters merge,
a tale of something ancient, an existential urge.
To know may be the ending, the truth beneath the skin,
but ignorance is torture, a fight I’ll never win.
So here I lie, bound by my own hand,
a prisoner to the word I can’t understand.
In the silence of my agony, in the echoes of my plea,
the word is all that remains of me.