Who am I talking to
in this brittle, rotten life—
where words wear masks
and eyes forget how to stay honest?
Every voice feels borrowed,
every promise echoes hollow,
like footsteps in an abandoned house
that once knew warmth.
I reach out—
but touch slips through like smoke,
and even silence
feels like it’s hiding something.
Trust—
once a quiet bridge between souls,
now a broken thread
dangling over doubt.
So tell me—
is it you I’m speaking to…
or just another illusion
learning how to sound real?
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