The mirror is a vault of things I try to erase.
Each flashback a fissure, a crack in my grace.
I wander through museums of aching regret,
admiring my shame in each framed silhouette.

I was the villain in every story I wrote,
composed every chapter and signed every note.
Didn’t need enemies, I played them all,
one by one, I felt each of them fall.

Whispered harsh truths no friend ever dared,
wore my guilt like a coat, custom-stitched in despair.
Built a castle from wreckage, with walls laced in hate.
Furnished with failures I learned to curate.

In the dark of night I broke like cheap glass,
sitting in silence with questions I would always bypass.
Instead of the usual self-inflicted sting,
A soft voice whispered, “you’re under my wing.”