What shadow whispered in my spine, That made me blur each boundary line? Was it defiance, was it need— Or just the hunger to watch me bleed? Why did I run toward the fray, And torch the maps that lit my way? Did I mistake the ash for grace, Or find strange comfort in disgrace? How many masks did I outgrow, Before I faced the truth I stow? Is madness soft when self-inflicted, Or is the wound just self-convicted? When silence wraps me like a shroud, Will I still scream beneath it, loud? Or drown beneath the weight I’ve spun— Not fierce, not lost—just come undone.