You don’t even deserve a poem,
yet here I am.
I wouldn’t call it a poem.
It’s a blade in my hand.
You twist words like wire,
then grin at the spark.
You preach your own gospel,
then choke on my dark.
You thought I’d be quiet,
another ghost in your chain.
But I watched,
and I waited,
and carved reason from flame.
I saw through your false smile,
reflection stripped clean.
The chill in my eyes
was the last thing you’d seen.
You crowned yourself goddess,
preaching pain as grace.
But your altar is empty,
and truth erased your face.
Your empire of mirrors
collapsed in the glare.
Now your name tastes of silence,
and I no longer care.
You don’t even deserve a poem,
but you get a eulogy.
Let the world remember
how arrogance bleeds.
I never wanted mercy,
nor begged for pity.
Your downfall
is victory enough for me.