Your Shadow

YOUR SHADOW

(The part of you that smiles behind mourning–

that licks tears before they fall,

that laughs behind silence and grins when you beg—

your silent warden, your first and last witness —

not sleeping, not judging—

just observing.)

What it knows:

You're performing a role written by your ghosts.

The applause you crave tastes like ash and old blood.

Even your screams are rehearsed.

The person you pretend to be is starving—

(it feeds on your hunger)

One day, this version of you will be a memory–

(The shadow will watch that too. It always watches)

What it hears:

The script you whisper at 3 AM , with your teeth clenched.

The silent scream behind your voice.

The echo of a name you've almost forgotten–

(the one They erased when They taught you how to smile)

The way your laughter sharpens like broken glass.

The silence between "I'm fine" and the next lie.

(Hollow enough to echo back)

What it remembers:

Every face you've worn like borrowed skin.

The exact weight of masks you've buried, still worm.

The weight of your father's expectations–

(they fit you like a coffin)

Your first rehearsal—when you still flinched at pretending.

The first time you traded a truth for a laugh.

What it fears:

That the mask will fossilize.

That one day it will blink— and miss your final act.

That one day, you'll stop performing...

and it will have nothing left to watch

What it offers:

A key that rusts in your palm, it's teeth fit no lock.

A knife that cuts both ways.

The unbearable mercy of silence.

The script for your next betrayal– already memorized.

An audience of eyes that never blink.

What it steals:

The name your mother whispered to you in darkness

The exact weight of your childhood bones

The last time you touched someone without calculating

The rhythm of your heartbeat before shame rewrote it.

The last night, it borrowed your voice– You woke up laughing.

What it murmurs:

“They love the performance, not the performer”

“One day even your ghost will forget you”

“The dark tastes different when you stop fighting it”

(“You should've never looked behind the curtains”)

What it's waiting for:

For you to meet its gaze in the mirror

For the script to catch fire in your hands

For you to turn around

and finally “see” it.

The moment you do—

Lights fail.

Script burns— Hands rot.

The applause was always your own hands,

wearing another's skin.

You were never the actor.

You were never the audience.

the theater was always empty

the shadow was always your mouth

shaped into someone else's smile.

the performance ends.

(But the shadow remains

Still seated–

Still smiling–

Still hungry-

(Waiting for your next act.)

Poem by: E. Writer X.