Akun - Borrowed Face

11 Oct 2026 · 3 min

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3:10

A spoken-word piece set in a white room where the narrator wears a borrowed face to hide their true identity. They describe fragmented details: a paper cup cooling before dawn, a folded note missing its middle, painted doorways. The speaker grapples with unnamed parts of themselves and yearns to be called by a forgotten name.

Chapters

You left the white room spotless. No fingerprints along the glass. I wore that blank face to the hallway so no one had to ask. The mirror kept its distance. The ceiling stayed awake. I learned to hold a silence. Like something I could break. If you see me, call me by the name I forgot beneath the porcelain shade. I'm still here, breathing through the space between what I conceal and what I crave. A paper cup beside the window, gone cold before the dawn. Your note was folded into quarters, the middle part was gone. I painted over every doorway, then missed the former poo. A room can lose its corners. Let the dust land where it may. I don't need to look untouched now. I just need to stay. If you see me, call me by the name. I can set this borrowed face away. I'm still here learning how to stay with the parts I never learned to name. I am alone. The room is quiet. The room is mine. I leave the blankness at the line.