The masks were white—
not clean, but dead,
like wilted lilies left too long in water,
faces frozen mid-lie,
grinning with teeth that never knew warmth.
They surrounded me—
and I, draped in a robe too white to belong to me,
felt them cling like guilt to my skin.
It whispered of silence,
of purity I never asked for,
in a room reeking of something lost.
Running—
Bare feet torn by stone and memory,
mud clinging like ghosts I couldn’t shake.
The maze pulsed around me,
walls breathing, twisting—
each corner a lie,
each turn a prayer.
And still,
I searched for your face
beneath hollow disguises.
I screamed,
voice cracking like glass
against their painted calm,
Where is he?
Where did you bury his warmth?
His hands—his breath—his goddamn soul?
They answered with nothing.
Just eyes that didn’t see.
But I kept running.
Because I knew
you were somewhere,
still breathing beneath the silence,
waiting to be remembered.
And if I have to claw my way through madness
to bring you back,
then madness will bleed.
