Stage

I don’t tell your story.

I don’t tell their story.

The story of those who find nothing when the doors finally creak open — of those whose eyes stay dull even when true fire burns before them.

I tell mine.

My vicious little circles.

My broken tracks.

My trembling steps, my screaming fears.

I see where almost no one dares to look — deep inside the rot of who we are. I hurl out the words that choke most into silence.

Words that few ever dare breathe — the ones that kill quietly when never spoken, the ones that bury the cowards without ever giving them the mercy of trying.

This is what drags me here.

This is the curse I was born to carry — for as long as I have the strength to bleed it onto the page.

What I am, I throw at you.

This — all of this — is real.

Amidst this circus of painted clowns and blind crowds, I make myself flesh — raw and defiant.

No masks.

No mercy.

Every scrap of space I seize, I devour.

I drag brilliance into the rain — the same rain that carved these scars. I weave stories within wounds, and wounds within stories.

My greatest work — is yours to see, if you dare.

While others sob quietly when the night comes, while they plaster grins across faces no one really cares to read,

I tear the skin open.

I let the blood pour out.

You would never have the stomach for it.

I tell my story.

I carve my consciousness into the stone of existence, because it owns me — and it holds the knife to my throat every time I try to forget.

I am not eccentric.

I am inevitable.

And I will keep unsettling you. I will keep breathing fire into this silence. I will not end here.

Decades ahead. Decay forbidden.

The doors I rip open — will never close again.