I sat outside in the sun,
a book open like a secret resting in my hands.
The air was still,
yet the pages fluttered as if the wind knew something I didn’t.
My eyes drifted across the lines,
and beneath me, my shadow began to read too,
its fingers tracing the words,
its lips moving silently.
The sun climbed higher,
but the ink seemed to thicken,
pulling me in.
letter by letter, thought by thought.
My skin felt thin as paper,
my heart beating in type.
I was inside the story now,
lost among words that shifted
every time I blinked.
Nothing stayed real..
not the sky, not the sun, not even myself.
Frustrated, I pulled a match from my pocket,
struck it against the edge of the world,
and let it fall.
The fire crept along the sentences,
burning truth back into the light.
When I rose from the ashes,
only my shadow lingered,
staring at the smoking ground.
He whispered..
“You can’t trust what’s written…
even sunlight lies on paper.”
.
.
.
.
📸 @melina.gre
Thought Truth
Peace Identity
An idea A secret
Advice Perspective
Faith A whisper
Fire A word
Time A book
The future A memory
A dream Imagination
A reflection Emotion
I taught my mouth to curve
before my thoughts could speak.
I wear it when memories get loud
when my past knocks without hands.
For some it’s taught
for me it’s caught.
For some it’s muscle memory
For me, it’s me.
If you catch my smile slipping
don’t panic..
That’s just me
forgetting who I’m performing for.
