It’s the things you swear are good for you that drag you under.
You did this to yourself, but I don’t blame you.
Would you even notice if no one spoke?
If I bit my tongue, would you mistake my silence for wisdom? For cowardice?
Or would you just hear what you wanted to?
I’m not afraid of your judgment. I’m afraid of the aftermath—the way the air changes when truth hangs between us, thick as smoke.
We’re only human.
We flinch. We lie. We armor ourselves in delusion.
Selfish? Maybe.
But I never meant to be the one holding the knife.
Would you listen if I told you? Or would you twist my words into a noose?
It goes both ways, you know.
I could speak—but could I survive what you’d do with it?
What happens to me when I unclench my fists?
What happens to you when no one’s left to blame?
The world watches, hungry for our downfall. It feeds on the weak, then names them monsters for how they learned to survive.
So tell me—when the thing you loved finally whispered your name, was it in the voice of a savior?
Or an executioner?
Do you still hear the heavens sing—or just the echo of your own hunger, calling you deeper into the dark?