The hum of screens, a sterile, pale light, A government desk, where shadows take flight. He types with cold hands, a bureaucratic drone, Using state tools to leave me alone. The blue walls rise, a fortress of lies, Where "domestic" means whispers, and tear-filled eyes. Gaslight's a serpent, it coils and it bites, And truth fades to darkness, where wrong feels like right. "Why don't you speak?" they ask, with a frown, But the words are all choked, and they never come down. There's a gulf between can't and won't, a chasm so deep, Where silence is purchased, and secrets they keep. The keystrokes descend, a digital shroud, My voice is erased, from the whispering crowd. The equipment of power, a weapon so keen, To silence the victim, and leave the scene clean.