A Killing Torment

A Killing Torment

There were nights when the walls began to breathe,

when the air grew thick enough to swallow thought,

and every memory crawled out of its hiding place,

seeking a throat to tighten until morning broke.

I learned the ritual of pacing empty rooms,

counting each heartbeat as if it could save me,

listening for footsteps that never belonged,

waiting for mercy that never learned my name.

The torment grew slow like a twisting vine,

wrapping itself around the places I feared,

holding the years in a grip that refused release,

feeding itself on the weakness I tried to hide.

Some nights I begged the dark for a final sound,

something sharp enough to cut the silence open,

but the hours only circled my trembling frame,

reminding me that suffering knows its own schedule.

And still I rise when another night begins,

carrying the weight of what was never forgiven,

breathing through moments shaped like broken glass,

knowing the torment will find me again.