I live in a house with no exit.
The windows lie, the mirrors scream,
and the walls breathe with voices
that tell me I am dangerous.
Wrong.
Unworthy.
Every step creaks guilt.
Every doorknob twists into doubt.
I try to run—
but the halls just bend,
the rooms just change,
and I end up back where I started:
panicked and polite.
Bleeding quietly.
The demons here know my name.
They wear my face.
They curl around me in the dark and whisper,
What if?
What if you’re a monster in mother’s clothes?
What if they’d be safer without you?
And I believe them.
God help me, I believe them.
But somewhere in this ruin—
beneath the rot and ash and lies—
there is a window.
Cracked, but not broken.
And beyond it,
a crescent moon.
A small sliver of light.
Enough.
Those that do not leave
even when I push,
even when I scream,
even when I beg them to believe the worst of me.
They stay.
They see me.
Not the ghost. Not the echo.
Me.
And so I stay too.
Not for the demons.
Not for the house.
But for the moon.
For the ones who stand in the hallways with open arms
and whisper back louder than the lies.