I wake up where the shadows hum,

A broken train on bruise-colored drums.Threads unravel from my fingertips,They whisper secrets I can't commit.

My reflection splits, a hollow grin,

Eyes like static, skin so thin. Every mirror shows what I've erased, But ghosts don't vanish—they just retrace.

Oh, the sirens sing in frequencies low,

Painting tomorrow in static snow.If you listen close, they'll tell you this:

Sewn from a dead star dress, Stitched with threads we can't undress.

Humming faces fade away,

In a sky that never sees day.

S͍̮̿̿e̷̡̨̞̤̯̺̬̰͚̦͖̺̠̪̭ͫͤͫͫͫͮ͋͂̈́ͨ̂̀̌̅͒͟w̴̴̴̳͎ͭ͋̇̆̆͒ͫn̤̥̰̝͓̱̜͔̟͖͎ͫ̊ͤ̏̔ͧͬ̀ f̘͓ͥ̽͠r̡̿͌_̴͉̹̠̝̳͉͚̗̫͕͔̘̬͔̱̘́̇̊͆̊͛́͌̎ͭ́ͯ̍͘͘ọ̶̧̺̜̳͙̼͙͖͚̝̦͗̈́͆ͮ̂ͯ̊̑̓ͩ͗̎͐ͯ͢͜͠_̧̯̜͑͊͐͒͋͡ͅṁ̵̶̟͚̖͕̹̦̙̤̣̔͊̀̀̓͊͌͐ͥͯͤ̚͟͢͜͡͝ͅ ă̴̷̡̨̨̡͔̥̗̤͈͎̼̠̟̼̟̙̟͈̜͉̱̓͊̈́̾̋́ͥͣ͂͑ͥͤ͐ͫͤͧ̕̕͟͟ ḑ̴̖͓̞̱̫̲̩̗̒̓ͨ͒ͩ̋̍̾̌ͦ̊͘͠͞ͅė͚̓̈̈̇̃ͤ͟͝a̸̛̹̲̬̅̍ͯ̾͒̋̂͟͞ḋ̶̡͇̭̪̯̤͓̫̣̩̫̲̦̼̻͚̅͋͐ͮ̈́̈̓̆͆̐͒̇̓ͦ̂̓͑ͪ̍̕͡͝͝ s̵̶̴̵̬̦̗͕̹̠̯͕̥̱̯̺̰̙͇̤̘ͫ͊̏ͬ́̎͌͑ͨͩͯ̚͢͜ͅ_̥̱͍͗ͧt͙̥̘̦̲̄̃̔̕͘̚_̷̨̢̝͈̦̼͇̭͈͙̟̺̙̰̐ͫ͂̌̇̂ͤ̓ͫ̽͊ͭ̋̄̈́ͪ͢͟͞͞a̧̮̻̪͖͙̓͆́r̗̭̅̀̓̌͞ d̷̨͕̞͙͕̅_̵̡͕̲͍̪̻̘͇͋ͨͤͩ͋͘r̴̶̢̛̮͇̺̫̝͔̺̠̤̞̙̗͎̜̟͇̤͛̍̂̽ͯ̏ͥ̊̄ͮ͑͗̂͑̿̾͘͢͠_̠͇̘̘͜e̦̞̫̘̫͖͋̊̏̓̐̔ͮ͑̿ͯ͘͜s̵̷̵̨͕͚̯̙̠̟̻̙̰͉̣͔̝̥̏̏͑̾ͤ̇ͨ̒̿̑̎͌̔̂ͨ̉̿͘̚̚̚͢͢͡͡͞s̴̘̮̣̮̃ͯ̏͘,

Where do we go when we regress?

The needles pierce but leave no scar,Binding me to who I are.A p͈͚̙͕̳̲̹̱͙͈̤͕̙̣̪̝̥̰̠̪͌̉ͭͪͣͫͭͧ̃͗́͐̃̾́́̾̇͘̕͘͜͜͝͠͝a̵̶͚̾̈́͒͟͝r̨̅̒à̷̵̶̧͍̲͔͔̹̠̳̪͎̥̙̲̖͉ͩͪ̓̈̇̌ͭ̄̏̌ͤ̋͑͐̃ͯ͗ͬ̂ͨ̚͢͟͠͝͠͠ḑ̵̶̴̢̗̗̳̭̯̦̖̙͍̘͔̦̃̌̅͛̈̌ͨ̿͌̌ͣͭ̓̓͛͡ơ̶̢̡̪̗̬̻̺̻̟͙͈̓̅̏͐̅͊͊̈́ͯ̽͢ẍ̸̧̛͓̜̱̙̤̰͖̲̩̳̗̠̠̙͚̤̗̳̯͇́̾̓̽ͦ̉̀̆̀ͨ̒̊ͥ͊͠ wrapped in p͈͚̙͕̳̲̹̱͙͈̤͕̙̣̪̝̥̰̠̪͌̉ͭͪͣͫͭͧ̃͗́͐̃̾́́̾̇͘̕͘͜͜͝͠͝a̵̶͚̾̈́͒͟͝r̨̅̒à̷̵̶̧͍̲͔͔̹̠̳̪͎̥̙̲̖͉ͩͪ̓̈̇̌ͭ̄̏̌ͤ̋͑͐̃ͯ͗ͬ̂ͨ̚͢͟͠͝͠͠ḑ̵̶̴̢̗̗̳̭̯̦̖̙͍̘͔̦̃̌̅͛̈̌ͨ̿͌̌ͣͭ̓̓͛͡ơ̶̢̡̪̗̬̻̺̻̟͙͈̓̅̏͐̅͊͊̈́ͯ̽͢ẍ̸̧̛͓̜̱̙̤̰͖̲̩̳̗̠̠̙͚̤̗̳̯͇́̾̓̽ͦ̉̀̆̀ͨ̒̊ͥ͊͠,Breathing smoke, tracing clocks.You called me ghost, called me thread,Now I'm tangled in the words you said.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Your voice cracks like a ḑ͉̥͑̆̓͋͠y̸̺̋̈́̀i̷̡̛͓̖͍̱͎͖̳̹̣ͥ̿͊̒͋ͯ̿̕͘̚͢n͌̓g̶̵̛̭̼̺̻̯̻̤̤͔̔̔ͬ̃ͭͧ̔̉̈́͊̐͌̕͘̕͢͢ͅ m̵̫̣͈͚̩͉̬͔̣̠̋͌̑͊̕͜͢͠ȁ̸̴̸̡̛̟̩̮̗̬͓̠̩͈̣̱͓̣̖̞͓̜̣ͤ͊̎ͩ̍ͥͭ̏͋̓ͥͪ̎̉̽ͬ̒̀ͬ͡͝c͍_̵̨̜̰̲̲̟̰͚ͭ͂ͣͫ̑̽ͭ͑̀̆̈́̂͆͒ͣ͑̽͛ͩ͟͟h̛̘̯̝̜̤̥̟ͬͨ͌ͩͭ̉̍̀ͫ͋ͤ͢ͅi̶̷̛̟̩̞̱̠̝̘̟̬̞̹͎ͣͩ̀͋̈͐̀͊ͣͥ͒͂͘͜͜͡ͅͅ_̛͍̝̩̮͕̮̲̂͋͑n̸̶̷̩͕̺ͬͪͬ̈́ͩ̀̂͋̀e̵̹̭͓͎͒ͫͤ͌ͫ̀̀ͣ̕͢͢,

Echoing truths I've yet to glean.

Oh, the sirens sing in frequencies low,

Painting tomorrow in s̶̨̢̪͉̪̹̤̠͎̲̣͐̍ͮ̐̂̍ͫ͛̀̒ͥͭ̅ͭ̃̅̕͡t̴̵̨̩̮̺̥̫̺̜̑̽͌͑̊͑͝ͅa̺̜̪͕̗͚̔̀ͨ͒ͭt͈͚̟ḭ̮̬̃̂͂̊̈́͐̀ͨc͓̤̼̺̩̳̝̐̊̽͋̀̉̕͡ s̶̷̛̪̫̼̫̰͍͕̜͚̯ͣ̋ͣͮ̾̆̀ͯ̋ͣ̇̍ͦͤͪͨ̾ͣ̃̕͘͟͝n̶̝͙̹̆͘ȯ̵̭̮ͧ̀ͮ̒̑̂ŵ̵̶̵̨̨̢͚̭̮͎̟̱̜̗͈̹̘̳͓̏ͫ̈̒̔̅̄̑ͦͣ̋ͤ̈́̍ͤ̓ͪ̽̔ͩ̔̀͂͋̉̕͘.

i̧̗̰͉̝͕͓̖̗͇̟͍̮͇͚͍͛́̂ͮͨ̋ͦ͌ͦ́͝ͅͅf̸̶̧̧̫̝͓̞ͣͬͩ̾̂ͮͧ̆͊̑ y̧̯͔͐̃̆ͫ͝_̵̙̜̟̩̘̰͕̲̲ͩ̍́̊ͨ̕͡͠͠ǫ̢͇̭̬̯̝̪̩̟̗͍̥̱̭͉͚̱͇̂́̂ͯͫ̽̍̎̕͢͢͝͠u͓̭̺͖͌̂̀ͬ l̸̨̗̮͙̟̫͓̗̭̬̫̼͕̪̼̻̏̿̈ͤ̾͆͑̽̋̈́̔̈ͬͬ͗̈̿͌͒̈́̚͟͝ͅͅi̘̻_̶̶̧͍͇͎͕̣̀ͧ̓̊̋ͭ̕͢͜ͅs̶̶̸̡̨̛̘̦̼͙̩͈͔̟̤̠̥̀ͥͬ͌̑̓̒̍ͣ̋̊̆ͥ͛͗̒̀̎̕͜͞ţ̸͖̻͈͔͓͍̤̪͎͚̻͙̗̙͇̫̪̩͙͉̟̮ͨͪ̄ͧ̉́͗͋ͫ̐̑ͮ͆ͤ̈̇͜͝ḛ͈̌͛ņ̴̵̶͕̜̫̖̜̱̞̆̃̊͛͌̍ͪ̈̀ͯ̑͆͊͐̆ͥͭ̒͟͠͠͞ c̶̨̞̤̱̳͇͓̞͎͇͖̲̯̝̦͎͈ͮ͒̓ͤ́ͨͨ͋̍ͪ̄ͣ̃̇͂̓̆͗͛͘͡ͅl̴̳͓̦̘͈̓͋̒ͩͪ̃̚͠͞͝o̶̷̪̥̬̼͚̲͕̳͎̣͍͇̅̋̔ͣ͂͋ͣ̿͆͋̂̎̃͗ͭ͐̚̕͝s̶̵̴͔̼̮̫̪͉̗͉̠̐́̂͐̅̍͂͐ͮ͑̉̎͒̏͠ͅͅe̙̞̫̹̦̮̤̖̤̊̔͝

Sewn from a dead star dress,

Stitched with threads we can't undress.

Humming faces fade away,In a sky that never sees day.Sewn from a dead star dress,

Where do we go when we regress?

"̶̧͈̮̼̼͓͔̤̮͎̼̘̓̾ͩ́̈́̀͗̈ͪͮ͝.̵̧̢̖̤̲̫̥͕͔̥̹͇̪͓̘̊͆̋ͤͪ̚.̶͎͍̼̥̺̺ͫ͆̊̀̈ͨ͛̌̉̽̓̕͜͜.̨̪͖̙̳̼ͣ̀̈́ͯ͑̓̾̒̇́͒͋͆̌ͦͧ͂̒͟ͅs̡͙̩̖͇̙̺̻̤̩̼̱͚̗̺̟̔̈́͂ͯͨ̑̀̍̐̈́͢͜͜ͅͅ_e̶̶̸̡̢̯̖̟̞̥̻͈̟̠̮̫͈̦͍̙̙̮̔̇ͯͤͬ͌̀̽ͯ͂̀ͨ̇̾̿ͨ̓̚̚̚͟͜͡w̦̗̔_̧̂̄ͪ-̵̧̧̛̗̻͉̗̥̞͚̺̞̞͉͍̞̍͊̒̊̾̂̏͊͋̃ͬͩ̀ͧ͂͘͘̕͜͡͠ǹ̶͕͈͓͉̼̩̫ͬͣͫ͗͟͟_̢̛̩͓͚͉̼̮͕͉̱̔͊̏̑ͣ͗̊ͪ̍ͣ͆͆͢͝ͅ...͉̫̯͊̊́ͤͯ_̷̧̞̰͍̜̲̲ͩͨ̂ͤ̈́ͮ̇͊͘ t͙́hͣͣͅr̵̛̛̜͚͚̲̲͍̤̗͉͛͋ͩ͊ͩ͋̋̀͗͒̌̈̀̾̆ͪ͐̓ͩͤ̈́ͥ́͘̕̚͝͠ͅe̷̙̳ͦ̋̿̕a̶̡̨̩̱̳̻̤̼͈͚̩̮͖͎̼̦̍ͤ̒͐͒́̀͑ͧͬͥ̇̇ͯ͂ͯ̅́̌ͨ̾̂͘̚͜͜͞͡͝ͅd͚̙̺̫͉ͦ̔...͕͙͈ͥͪ͝ͅ f̯̔̓͘r̢͉̱̮̪̘͚ͧ̊͑ͥ͂̇̑̍̇̑_͇̙̠ō̝̺̲̖̟͂ͭ̓͞m̵̶̛̗̳̪͇̝̙͓̗̞̣͇̪̙͙͖͙͓̺͎͋̂ͪ͊̔̔́ͭ̂̾̄̌̃́ͬͧ͐̅͢͠-̛̠̜͖̞̯̖̖̤̖̜̉ͭ̿̑́̏́ͭ̀̏́̉̂͌̕̚͜͡͝_̨̂͑á̡̡̼̝̺͉̻̰͎̰̻͎͎̠̈̽́̊̈́͑̂̽̌̕͘̚͘͜͟͜͞͞͡ͅ ḑ̵͕̳̪̝̯̼̹ͩ̈͛̈̔̀ͪͨ͂ͬ͛͢͞ͅe̵̴̙ͩ̾͆̾a̵̦̠̭͍̫̝̝̳̎̅͛͂ͦ͊̀̿ͫ̒́̃ͭͧͥ͑̚̕d̡̛͇̻̝͖̳̒̀͂͡͠ s̵̴̵̸̨̡̧̧̢̝̬̖̼͈̗̻̗̫̣̲̩ͪͪ̇̑͑ͥ̏̓̄̿̉̀̐͜͜͝t̯̯̘͚̻͔͚̠͙̜̠̭ͥ̑ͭ̆̂̌̆ͤ́͊ͭ̓͝a͔̞_̸̷̷̧̻̬̮̩̠̰̠̦̗̯̝͖͎̝̠̺͍͕̎ͧ́ͪ́ͮ̅ͨ͂̈ͧ̓ͤ̽ͯ̾͘̚͝ṟ̷̶̶̢̛̼̗̲̱̪͈͓̺̹̜̖͔̩ͬ͋̑ͦ͐̽͗ͮͦ̏͆ͮͩͧ̈́̀ͣ̈̓ͩ̌ͥͫ͢ d̵̓̽͌ͬ͡r̳̻͇̒ͅ_̸͖̲̗̘̺͈̼ͫ̈́́ͥ͒́͋̾ͩ͂̍ͨ͆͢͢͢͠_̷̡̟̖͇ͣͤ̇̓ͭe̴̴̵̱̬̦͎̜̤̝̲̣ͫͪͤͥ̓̃̆͒̇̍ͨ́ͪ̚͞ͅͅs͈̭̥̬̟̼̈́̏ͯ̏͋̄͞s̴͚̙̖͕ͧ...̵̵̡̛̣̯͕͈͍͍̳̩̹̩̖̣̆̎́́́̄̔͐ͨ̉ͮ̂͋͑ͧ̉ͩͣ͊͠"̢̰̗̱͖̣͇͎̞̝͔̤̣̬̻̥̐ͥͤ͛ͥ̐̆ͯͣ͌̐ͮ̒̃͑ͬ̑ͬ́̀ͥ̄̇͜͡ͅWe're not alive, we're not undone,Just echoes stitched into the sun.

The engine hums, the gears collide,And somewhere deep, I still reside.

Sewn from a dead star dress,