I have nothing left to dress this up.
No rhyme, no rhythm, no goddamn metaphor.
I gave the words my ribs, and they snapped them clean.
They didn't even say thank you.
This is not a poem.
It's a full stop.
It's a scorched earth—
Not poetic, just precise.
I am done feeding meaning to the furnace.
Done dragging dead beauty through broken glass
Just so someone can call it deep.
God knows what He did.
Or worse—doesn't.
And if love is still hiding somewhere in this mess,
Let it rot too.
You want a poem?
Here it is:
I quit.
No halo, no hymn, no hand on my back.
Just a crater where care used to be.
Not buried, not mourned.
Just erased.
Rest in piss.
She-if this is not clear enough, I am done with writing, poetry, and whatever. Done.
