Prism in the Rear View

The road twists like a secret whispered in a room full of mirrors,

a sudden narrowing that carves your breath away,

and you catch the glitter of cinder under your heel, dark embers

that burn deeper than the scars you show to cameras,

the ones no one asks about because you shine too bright.

You stand at the cusp where the world leans forward,

and even your reflection blinks like it’s afraid to stay.

There’s a veil of something too thin to hold,

soft as driftwood tossed in waves you can’t remember,

and you want to reach out but the moment slips,

like light breaking through a prism, splintering the way you thought you knew yourself.

This unending pain, the one you carry like a secret perfume,

colours every thought with a hollow gold,

the kind that catches in your throat when you say your name in an empty room,

when the applause fades but your heart keeps echoing,

when the world pulls away and you realise the beauty is a road

that bends so sharp you can’t see what’s coming,

only that there is no turning back.

You’re poised on the edge, finger off the brake,

the quiet before the drop,

the exact breath before momentum swallows you whole;

and the truth is sharper than the flash of a thousand cameras,

unseen but forever burning beneath your skin.