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#finalact
i am peeling back the lies one inch of tape at a time. you call me a monster for the fire, but you cry when i stop carrying the torch. down the side of the plastic, there was a map of who i loved- a row of initials like small, sticky altars. but the map is wrong now. the geography has shifted under the weight of the "forgiveness" you tried to sell me. so i peeled you off. it was easy. masking tape isn't meant to be permanent; it’s a temporary fix for things that are prone to breaking. i’m used to the adhesive failing, to the way the edges curl when the air gets too thin. i’ve spent five years pretending a paper-thin bond could hold the weight of a heavy, iron world, but eventually, the stickiness just gives up. and now you’re backstage, the salt of your grief ruining the makeup, sobbing between the scenes as if i’ve stolen your oxygen instead of just my own attention. 🎊 looks at me like i’ve kicked a puppy, demanding that i sit down and explain the mess. but we don't need to "talk"- that choice has been taken away. you can't exile me to the sidewalk and then expect me to open the door when you knock. you don't get to burn the bridge and then ask why i'm not standing on the other side waiting to catch your ashes. they want me to be the public enemy, the shadow in the wings, the cold, iron shield— but they still want me to keep their name close enough to touch. you want the right to hate me and the right to be missed by me at the exact same time. but a villain doesn’t keep a guest list. a monster doesn't curate a gallery of friends. a ghost doesn't save a seat for those who buried it. an arsonist doesn't save photos from the house you made her burn. if i am the glitch, then i am clearing the screen. if i am the alarm, then the room is empty. if i am "better alone," then i don't need to carry your alphabet into the next act. dry your eyes. you’re the star of the show, remember? you have the crowd, the gold, and the tragedy. you have EVERYTHING you wanted. i just have the gray, sticky residue where your name used to be. and for the first time, the plastic feels clean.
0
Apr 18
Apr 18, 2026 at 8:52 PM UTC
sd_nerd27
the sour parts of you: the residue you left (10)
i am peeling back the lies one inch of tape at a time. you call me a monster for the fire, but you cry when i stop carrying the torch. down the side of the plastic, there was a map of who i loved- a row of initials like small, sticky altars. but the map is wrong now. the geography has shifted under the weight of the "forgiveness" you tried to sell me. so i peeled you off. it was easy. masking tape isn't meant to be permanent; it’s a temporary fix for things that are prone to breaking. i’m used to the adhesive failing, to the way the edges curl when the air gets too thin. i’ve spent five years pretending a paper-thin bond could hold the weight of a heavy, iron world, but eventually, the stickiness just gives up. and now you’re backstage, the salt of your grief ruining the makeup, sobbing between the scenes as if i’ve stolen your oxygen instead of just my own attention. 🎊 looks at me like i’ve kicked a puppy, demanding that i sit down and explain the mess. but we don't need to "talk"- that choice has been taken away. you can't exile me to the sidewalk and then expect me to open the door when you knock. you don't get to burn the bridge and then ask why i'm not standing on the other side waiting to catch your ashes. they want me to be the public enemy, the shadow in the wings, the cold, iron shield— but they still want me to keep their name close enough to touch. you want the right to hate me and the right to be missed by me at the exact same time. but a villain doesn’t keep a guest list. a monster doesn't curate a gallery of friends. a ghost doesn't save a seat for those who buried it. an arsonist doesn't save photos from the house you made her burn. if i am the glitch, then i am clearing the screen. if i am the alarm, then the room is empty. if i am "better alone," then i don't need to carry your alphabet into the next act. dry your eyes. you’re the star of the show, remember? you have the crowd, the gold, and the tragedy. you have EVERYTHING you wanted. i just have the gray, sticky residue where your name used to be. and for the first time, the plastic feels clean.
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