The Wall

There are monsters that murmur in the quiet of my head.

They breathe in shadows, where I stumble and tread.

Their voices like echoes, haunting, low, and slow,

Telling me softly what I’ve come to know.

They say I deserve the bruises, the scars I hide,

The hurt that curls up, a storm I keep inside.

They promise it’s fate that brings me harm,

Whispering truths with a hollow charm.

They tell me I pull in people wrapped in dark,

Drawn to my wounds, like moths to a spark.

I open my arms, though they’re bruised and cold,

Welcoming ghosts that leave me controlled.

I cling to their words, though they feel like lies,

Trying to make sense of their taunting disguise.

For maybe it’s easier to believe them, somehow—

That I am the reason I suffer right now.

But maybe, just maybe, these monsters deceive,

Feeding on guilt in the spaces I grieve.

Yet still, they linger, relentless and near,

Living in shadows, feeding on fear.

The monsters are everywhere.