They want redemption
like it’s owed.
Like ruin must end in song.
Like pain earns purpose
if endured long enough,
loud enough,
with enough witnesses to clap.
They want suffering
to be currency —
spent toward a cleaner ending.
They want to bleed,
but only if the blood can be painted into halos.
They want mercy
without the math.
They believe in arcs —
in plotlines,
in gods that make sense,
in climaxes that justify the carnage.
But life isn’t a scroll.
It doesn’t fold back into itself.
There is no midpoint,
no redemption waiting
in the last act.
Only echoes.
Only dust where your scream was.
They whisper of forgiveness
as if the wound cares.
As if the knife regrets.
As if the fire you set
can forget the forest.
There are no heroes.
Just survivors
with slightly better posture.
There is no rise.
Just gravity
paused mid-sentence.
They need redemption
because the thought of a fall
without flight
terrifies them.
Because if you don’t get yours,
they won’t get theirs —
and they’re not ready
to admit
they’ve been digging graves
and calling them mirrors.
They want a story
where monsters become men,
and men become monuments.
But monuments erode.
Men decompose.
Monsters remember.
And the only arc you’re owed —
is the arc of a shovel
splitting the skull of your delusion.
No comments:
Post a Comment