The daggers crawl beneath my skin, They twist and churn, they grin within. A thousand blades in fevered bloom, Each breath a march toward deeper doom. They stab not once, but every hour, In silent rooms, they seize their power. No scream escapes—just hollow moans, A choir built from breaking bones. They pierce my spine, they clutch my throat, They dance inside my tattered coat. And when I beg them, “Let me be,” They only hiss, “You’re part of me.” My shadow limps, my muscles tear, As pain drips poison through the air. My fingers twitch, my jaw locks tight, Each movement sparks a flash of fright. The floor begins to crack and spin, The ceiling caves and folds me in. My nerves are wires, sparking red, A marionette of molten dread. No mercy comes, no calm, no end, The agony becomes my friend. It sings me lullabies at night, And wraps me in its choking light. My skin’s a cage, my breath a crime, I’m punished by the hands of time. The hours bleed, they never pass, Just echoes screaming through the glass. I wear it now—a second face, A mask of fire, grief, and grace. It scalds, it scars, it shapes my scream, I live inside a waking dream. There is no cure, no God, no sleep, Just silence where the daggers sleep. And even then, behind closed eyes, They twist again—and I baptize.