In my room

Shhh the mirror doesnt lie, but it doesnt tell the whole story. Im standing in the sacred space behind the velvet curtain of my room the one where shadows whisper secrets and the walls hold memories in reverse. Im wearing his shirt. Not borrowed. Not stolen. Claimed. Like a second skin, a silent confession. The yellow fabric? Its a beacon in this dim world a beacon that says I am here, and I am not who you think I am. The dog sleeps like a judge, indifferent, curled in the beds embrace, its red collar a splash of blood against the candy-colored chaos. Behind me, the mirror holds my reflection fractured, half-sick, half-saint and the wall behind it is scrawled with words I cant read, but the brushstrokes scream in pink. What do they say? I dont know. I dont need to. The phones lens? Its the eye of the watcher, the keeper of this moment the one where the world is paused, and Im the only one allowed to breathe. The air tastes of old dreams and cheap perfume. The bed? Its a throne, a cage, a stage. Im not here to be seen. Im here to be felt. The shirt? Its a riddle. The mirror? Its a trap. The dog? Its a witness. The room? Its my altar. Shhh dont say anything. Just watch. The mystery is the only thing thats real here. The rest? Just fabric.

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