(a horror poem of inner torment)

They whisper in static, beneath my skin,

A lullaby hummed from the jawbone in sin.

Not angels, not devils—just echoes of me,

Splintered and smiling, where no one can see.

“Do it,” they whisper. “Make it bleed.

Kindness is weakness. Pain is need.”

I shake my head, but it’s not mine—

It’s borrowed from shadows, stitched in twine.

The hallway breathes. The lights flicker blue.

They know your scent. They know it’s you.

I tried to love. I tried to heal.

But mercy’s a mask, and rage is real.

You shouldn’t have touched the door in my mind.

Now it opens slow… one hinge at a time.

And all the parts I tried to chain

Are crawling back in blood and brain.

I don’t want this. I swear, I don’t—

But the voices tell me you won’t.

They say you lied, they say you laughed.

They sharpen knives in every draft.

I’m not the killer—but I wear his face.

He lives in mirrors. He likes your place.

I scream “Don’t listen!” but silence moans,

As the walls reply in fractured tones.

One more breath, one final twitch—

Then the voice smiles,

and flips the switch.