In the flicker of the candle, where the shadows play,
lies the borderland between the night and day.
Twisted fantasies like vines, around my mind they stay,
obsession’s whispers in the dark, they never sway.
Every touch is fire, every glance a blade,
sensory overload, in overtones they’re laid.
Shame’s a cloak I wear in the masquerade,
dancing with my demons, in their parade.
Here in the quiet, the trauma stirs, whispers and conspires,
in the silence, my heart races, fueling ancient fires.
Reality’s thin line tears, as delusion never tires,
each ritual a chain, as the clock unwires.
The texture of a memory, sharp and unkind,
folds into my thoughts, a relentless bind.
Sex and pain intertwined, a twisted path designed,
seeking comfort where the darkest moods are mined.
Compulsive rituals at midnight, echoes in the brain,
seeking the sacred in the profane.
A whispered prayer, a crescendo of disdain,
as trauma dances on, sovereign and unrestrained.
So I’ll sing to the shadows, to the outline they trace,
in the mirror, a form I barely recognize.
Lost in this liminal, this haunted space,
where the past and present interlace.