You break, you wound, and then you write, turning lies into poetry, calling yourself the victim, naming me the tyrant while your own hands drip. This is your expertise, this is performance, pitiful theater. You redecorate your prisons, dress your rot in ink, but truth carves deeper than your words.
Hear me: projection is not power. Ink is not absolution. Your mask will not hold. The wound will return to its maker. I curse your lies to rot in your mouth, your illusions to collapse under their own weight. The story bends back, and Saturn weighs the scales.
𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖔𝖚𝖙𝖗𝖚𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖗𝖚𝖙𝖍. 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖔𝖚𝖙𝖗𝖚𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖐𝖆𝖗𝖒𝖎𝖈 𝖑𝖆𝖜𝖘.








