We all look the same in the dark—

bones beneath skin,

lips sealed tight like tombs

where the stories lie rotting.

No color, no scars,

no weight of past decisions

etched into the hollows of our cheeks.

Just shadows pretending

we’re clean.

Touch me there—

not the skin,

but the silence that clings to it.

You’ll find

not a person,

but a battlefield

dressed in flesh.

You’ll find the ghosts

I swallowed whole

to keep smiling.

They said night was kind,

that it levels us,

makes monsters into myths,

sins into secrets.

But the dark doesn’t heal.

It hides.

It wraps our pain in velvet,

lets us pretend

we’re not bleeding.

We become canvas—

blank, waiting,

waiting for someone

reckless enough

to strike the match.

And when they do—

when the light comes—

you’ll see the ruin,

the crooked brushstrokes,

the fingerprints of people

who used me up

and walked away

like I was just paint

on their hands.

Truth is cruel in daylight.

It doesn’t whisper.

It screams.

It points at the bruises

we painted over,

laughs at the lies

we told ourselves

just to sleep.

And suddenly,

we are no longer

the same.

We are seen.

I am not what you dreamed

in the comfort of dark.

I am shards,

I am ash,

I am stories written

with blood and refusal.

You cannot love me

in shadows alone.

Bring your light.

Burn me open—

but don’t flinch

when I glow

with everything

you never wanted to know.