My shadow kept the door

progressive metal, post-metal, experimental rock

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I built this quiet like a coffin, plank over plank of self-control nailed shut with reason.
Each hammer strike felt holy until the wood began to creak.
Peace is just noise that forgot how to scream; I hear it leaking through the seams.
It crawls through the openings I pretend aren’t there, skin the shade of my own fatigue,
hands dripping with the dust of every year I buried alive.
I taste that dust
it’s warm, almost sweet, like blood that’s been waiting.

Its breath against my ear is my own heartbeat returned as a threat,
a whisper shaped like I never left.

It pulls my spine like wire, tugging rhythm from the marrow of fear;
every jerk another confession I never meant to keep.
Control snaps with a sound like wet glass
a laugh slides through the break, low, certain, inevitable.
The walls breathe with me; the floor swells.
I see the faces of the years I smothered, pale as photographs in a flood.
They open their mouths but only dust comes out;
the dust hums, and the hum becomes the rhythm.

You called me ghost; you made me.
I’m the hole that remembers your shape.
We’re the same mouth gnawing the dark from opposite ends of the vein.
Each bite tastes like release.

My shadow kept the door — I’m coming down again.
Buried in the core — where the hollow never ends.
I’m the fall, I’m the fault, I’m the face beneath the skin,
My shadow kept the door — I’m coming down again.
I can feel the weight return, I can feel it sink within,
My shadow kept the door — and I’m walking through again.

It coils around the edges of my breath, a patient serpent of thought and hunger.
Each inhale another pact, each exhale another grave.
I kneel in the dust of everything I named survival.
There’s no light here, but the dark glows when I stop resisting.
It hums, and the hum becomes language;
it speaks through the cracks in my teeth,
it tells me I was never divided,
only sleeping in halves.

Now it sleeps behind my eyes, a tide that never turns,
a quiet weight pressing the dreams flat against the inside of my skull.
When I speak, it’s the voice that moves first, pulling the words from the pit like stones.
The door stays open
a thin line of breath between the then and the now.
I keep walking back.
Every step is a memory breaking its bones to fit my shape.
Every echo is me, returning.
And the sound
the sound is beautiful.

3042/7500

I can feel it stirring in the hollow of my chest, something older than thought, older than breath a pulse that never learned the word quiet. It presses from the inside, patient, patient, until the calm I built starts to fracture. The mirror fogs; the air tastes like iron. A shape gathers in the reflection, a smudge that remembers being me. It lifts a hand of smoke and glass, pressing through the surface like water under strain. The silence bends around it; I don’t move the silence moves for me. I built this quiet like a coffin, plank over plank of self-control nailed shut with reason. Each hammer strike felt holy until the wood began to creak. Peace is just noise that forgot how to scream; I hear it leaking through the seams. It crawls through the openings I pretend aren’t there, skin the shade of my own fatigue, hands dripping with the dust of every year I buried alive. I taste that dust it’s warm, almost sweet, like blood that’s been waiting. Its breath against my ear is my own heartbeat returned as a threat, a whisper shaped like I never left. My shadow kept the door — I’m coming down again. Buried in the core — where the hollow never ends. I’m the fall, I’m the fault, I’m the face beneath the skin, My shadow kept the door — I’m coming down again. It pulls my spine like wire, tugging rhythm from the marrow of fear; every jerk another confession I never meant to keep. Control snaps with a sound like wet glass a laugh slides through the break, low, certain, inevitable. The walls breathe with me; the floor swells. I see the faces of the years I smothered, pale as photographs in a flood. They open their mouths but only dust comes out; the dust hums, and the hum becomes the rhythm. You called me ghost; you made me. I’m the hole that remembers your shape. We’re the same mouth gnawing the dark from opposite ends of the vein. Each bite tastes like release. My shadow kept the door — I’m coming down again. Buried in the core — where the hollow never ends. I’m the fall, I’m the fault, I’m the face beneath the skin, My shadow kept the door — I’m coming down again. I can feel the weight return, I can feel it sink within, My shadow kept the door — and I’m walking through again. It coils around the edges of my breath, a patient serpent of thought and hunger. Each inhale another pact, each exhale another grave. I kneel in the dust of everything I named survival. There’s no light here, but the dark glows when I stop resisting. It hums, and the hum becomes language; it speaks through the cracks in my teeth, it tells me I was never divided, only sleeping in halves. Now it sleeps behind my eyes, a tide that never turns, a quiet weight pressing the dreams flat against the inside of my skull. When I speak, it’s the voice that moves first, pulling the words from the pit like stones. The door stays open a thin line of breath between the then and the now. I keep walking back. Every step is a memory breaking its bones to fit my shape. Every echo is me, returning. And the sound the sound is beautiful.

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