Ink Beneath The Skin

Ink Beneath The Skin

Your face is written over, not with names but with noise,

Fragments of something broken, the echo of other voices,

Black ink drips like memory, refusing to stay still,

A quiet kind of chaos, bending to its own will.

One eye holds the question, the other guards the truth,

Between them lives a story, worn thin from restless youth,

Words press through your silence, though none are fully clear,

A language made of shadows, that only you can hear.

There is a weight in stillness, a pull beneath your breath,

As if each thought is balanced, on the fragile edge of depth,

The world has tried to mark you, to name you, claim your space,

Yet something stays unspoken, behind your steady face.

A streak of dark intention, crosses what they see,

Not damage, not destruction, but raw identity,

You are not what is written, nor what they try to read,

You are the hidden current, beneath the visible need.

And still you stand in fragments, yet somehow fully whole,

A thousand scattered pieces, still answering your soul,

No page could ever hold you, no ink could make you stay,

You are the quiet defiance, that will not fade away.

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