In July, the sun mocks me—burning bright,
yet I shiver in corners, wrapped in fright.
The air is warm, the world is gold,
but something ancient, cold, takes hold.
A voice from the mirror whispers my name,
the walls are breathing, they play a game.
Shadows crawl like thoughts I hide,
my mother’s eyes in the ceiling slide.
I light a candle—no warmth,...
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