Your voice feels intrusive,
your memory feels contaminated.
I’m angry at you,
but I’m furious at myself
for kneeling to something so vacant and false.
Every poem I wrote was wasted breath.
I wasn’t writing to you,
I was writing onto you
a vessel wearing my words like stolen skin.
Nothing I praised actually ever existed.
This is not closure.
This is execution.
I set that chapter on fire
and watch until there is nothing left to recognise.
This is the last time your outline gets my ink,
False Prophet.
Feb 18
Feb 18, 2026 at 4:51 PM UTC
Your voice feels intrusive,
your memory feels contaminated.
I’m angry at you,
but I’m furious at myself
for kneeling to something so vacant and false.
Every poem I wrote was wasted breath.
I wasn’t writing to you,
I was writing onto you
a vessel wearing my words like stolen skin.
Nothing I praised actually ever existed.
This is not closure.
This is execution.
I set that chapter on fire
and watch until there is nothing left to recognise.
This is the last time your outline gets my ink,
False Prophet.
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