No Title

I guess this is how it ends.

Not with redemption. Not with forgiveness.
Not with a sunrise or a softened heart or some poetic last-minute epiphany.
No.
It ends in rot, in silence, in the quiet flick of a switch no one hears until it’s far too late.
No orchestra. No climax. No crowd holding its breath.
Just a door closing softly, and a voice that decided never to come back.

I’ve carried this weight for too long,
let it fuse with my bones,
let it throb beneath my skin like a second pulse,
constant, low, gnawing.
It was never sadness.
It was never grief.
It was something older than both.
Resentment, maybe.
Or the kind of fury that’s too still to scream,
the kind that just… waits.

They always told me to let go,
“Just forgive,” they said, as if mercy grows in places salt has scorched,
as if forgiveness were a switch,
and not a graveyard I’ve been forced to sleep in.

But I didn’t let go.
I sharpened it.
Polished it until it gleamed like a blade under moonlight.
I fed it in small, quiet ways,
biting my tongue, laughing when I wanted to snap bones,
pretending I didn’t hear what I heard, feel what I felt.
And every time I swallowed it down, it twisted deeper,
until it became me.

This world fed on me.
Smiled as it swallowed me whole, piece by piece,
with hands that pretended to hold but only ever hollowed.
They applauded my suffering in subtle ways,
nods, silence, the ever-polite indifference of people pretending not to enjoy the spectacle.
I was entertainment.
Now it’s my turn.

Don’t mistake this for a confession.
I owe no one the courtesy.
This isn’t remorse. This isn’t weakness.
This is anatomy.
This is the raw architecture of rage sculpted into its final form.

There is no redemption arc here.
There’s no tragic backstory you can cradle in your hands and feel sorry for.
I am not your cautionary tale.
I am not a misunderstood soul waiting for love to unlock some latent humanity.
No.
I am what remains when empathy runs dry,
when the reservoir of restraint cracks open and floods everything in its path.
I am aftermath.
And nothing more.

I don’t want to be understood.
Understanding is a luxury afforded to those who were seen.
I want to be remembered,
not fondly, not kindly,
but as a stain no soap can cleanse,
a whisper that unsettles the air long after the room is empty.
Let them tell children not to speak my name.
Let them cross themselves at the mention of it.
Let them know what silence can become when it rots.

Do you know what it’s like to wake up and feel nothing but contempt in your mouth,
like acid at the back of your throat?
To hear laughter and feel your jaw tighten,
not from jealousy, but from the sheer absurdity of people thinking any of this means anything?

I do.
And it made me clear.
Clearer than I’ve ever been.

Every smile I wore was a lie stretched thin across clenched teeth.
Every “I’m fine” was a burial, another coffin sealed inside me.
You didn’t notice.
No one did.
Why would they?
I played the role so well.
I became fluent in faking it.
In silencing the scream just before it hit the air.
In nodding when I wanted to vanish.

But there’s something beautiful about letting it all rot.
About watching the mask slip,
about finally dragging what lived in the shadows out into the daylight and letting it scream.
You called it madness.
I call it liberation.

I let the hatred grow wild,
like ivy down the sides of my mind,
crawling into the cracks of reason.
I stopped pruning it.
I let it bloom, poisonous and radiant.
I fed it with every betrayal, every eyeroll, every casual dismissal.
And now it’s tall enough to climb.
Tall enough to leap from.
Tall enough to choke the sky.

If you're looking for remorse, you’ve opened the wrong letter.
If you're hoping for a tragic moral, turn the page.
There’s no lesson here.
Only consequence.
Consequence shaped like a person,
like a ghost with teeth.

I became something else.
Something worse.
Something truer.
I unlearned compassion.
I untied my empathy like a tourniquet, let the poison flow freely.
It felt good.
God, it felt human.
Not the watered-down version of humanity that begs to be liked,
but the kind that howls under the moon and knows what it is.

I don’t expect you to understand the peace that comes with letting go of decency.
It’s like stepping outside after years underground,
the sun burning your skin,
the air too sharp to breathe,
and knowing, finally, that this pain is real.
That it’s yours.
And that it hurts better than numbness ever did.

There’s a freedom in knowing no one’s coming to save you.
No heroes. No gods.
Just the echo of your own voice in a locked room.
You make your own ending
or you rot waiting for someone else to write it.

So, I wrote mine.

I made my decision long ago,
long before the last straw,
long before the final insult,
long before the small betrayals piled so high they blocked the light.
All of this was inevitable.
And maybe I was always meant to be this thing,
this walking venom,
this clenched fist of a person no one could quite love
but everyone expected to endure.

I hope they talk.
I hope they speculate.
I hope they spin their theories, point their fingers, and try to make sense of what I’ve done.
Let them waste their breath.

The truth is simpler than they’ll ever guess.
I was tired of pretending.
Tired of swallowing it all down.
Tired of waiting for a world that never gave a damn to suddenly care.

So, I burned the house I was dying in.
And no, I don’t regret the fire.
I watched it catch like it was always meant to,
quick, eager, merciless.
It felt like exhaling.
Like finally saying something true.

Let the smoke carry my name like a curse.
Let the ruins speak for me now.
Let them wonder if they could have stopped it,
if a kind word,
a touch,
a pause,
might’ve pulled me back.

They couldn’t have.
No one could.
Because I never wanted saving.

I wanted silence.
I wanted revenge.
I wanted to become something no one could ignore ever again.

So here I am.
And now,
here I go.

No name.
No apology.
No peace.
Only this.