He came in velvet once, with hands that smelled of lavender, and eyes that knew your name before you spoke it. Porcelain Shadows Behind the glass, the figures stand in line, Their painted smiles, unbroken, neat, composed. A perfect frame, a family so divine, yet silence hums where secrets are enclosed. The walls are bright, but shadows stain the floor, a hidden script rehearsed behind the door. The laughter cracks, the porcelain begins to bleed, a fragile mask conceals the deeper need. The table set, the silverware aligned, but voices tremble, breaking in the mind. The picture-perfect scene begins to fray, its colors fading, peeling into gray. And though the world applauds the staged display, The truth is restless, clawing to betray. Porcelain smiles disguise the shattered core, the dollhouse trembles, hollowed out once more. The curtains fall, the audience unaware, of broken glass and whispers in the air. The dolls collapse, their strings no longer tight, revealing chaos hidden from the light. Yet in the ruin, something still survives, a quiet Another time, he limped in rags, asking for bread, but left with your peace tucked beneath his coat. He’s worn a priest’s collar, a child’s grin, a mother’s sigh, a lover’s skin. He’s been the joke that cuts too deep, the silence after “I’m fine,” the friend who always listens— but never speaks of his own mind. He is not horns. He is not fire. He is the echo that agrees with your darkest desire. He walks in kindness, sits in charm, laughs in recklessness, and sleeps in harm. The devil does not knock. He is already inside— wearing your face in someone else’s eyes.