Lullaby for the Damned: A Symphony of Soft Chains

The microphone is a cold, metallic needle against my lips, but your gaze burns hotter than any stage light. They call this performance—a sanitized ritual of smiles and sparkles for the masses who hunger to be fed by our perfection. But in this pink-washed purgatory, I am suffocating under the weight of their expectations.

I see you leaning against the back wall, a shadow among silhouettes. You aren't cheering like the rest; your eyes are heavy with an ache that mirrors my own. When I hit that high note—the one designed to make them weep for things they can’t name—it isn't for them. It is for you. It is a desperate, feverish SOS sent from behind this velvet cage.

The air between us thickens with the scent of dust and dying lilies. I want to drop the act, let my hair fall wild across my face, and scream into your palm until our hearts beat in sync against their rhythm. Every ruffle on my dress feels like a shackle; every bow is a knot tied around my throat. Yet, when you watch me, the city noise fades into a dull hum.

Healing isn't found in medicine or quiet nights. It’s here, in this illicit glance—the way your hand twitches as if to reach out and pull me from my pedestal. Let us burn together tonight. Just for one song, let our souls collide in the wreckage of a melody that no one else will ever hear. I am yours, not because they made me so, but because you dared to see the girl beneath the glitter.

Editor: The Escape Plan