Glass Jaw

Glass Jaw

The mirror’s cracked and bleeding, but it’s only my reflection.
I wear my old confessions like a throat full of infection.
I build my walls from panic, line the halls with dread.
Sleep with the lights on, keep the monsters in my head.

There’s voices in the corners, shadows in the phone.
I count the pills, count the steps, but I’m never alone.
My grip is slipping, the room starts to tilt.
Paranoia’s a comfort—fear’s the bed I’ve built.

I hear footsteps I never remember making.
Feel cold fingers underneath my skin even while I’m shaking.
Trust is a razor I keep pressed to my tongue.
Speak in broken riddles, bleed out when I’m done.

Every memory’s poison, every hope is a trick.
The monster wears my face, the monster’s too quick.
Walls closing in, ceiling caving down.
If I could run from myself, I’d torch this whole town.

Don’t tell me “it’s nothing”—I know how it ends.
The cracks grow wider, I lose all my friends.
All I can offer is fragments and rage.
You can hold the pieces, but you can’t stop the break.

Glass jaw, glass mind.
I shatter when I scream.
Every piece cuts deeper, nothing is what it seems.
I punch my own shadow, beg it to fight,
but I only bleed out, night after night.

I’d rather break on my own than let you try to bind.
So stand in the hallway, watch from afar.
You can’t love the splinters
underneath a glass jaw.