(industrial bassline drops—heavy, distorted, steady like a heart under pressure)
look at the architecture of your self-pity.
look at the small, fragile pedestal you built on a foundation of mud.
you want me to temper the tone?
you want me to soften the impact so your conscience can breathe?
nah.
they talk about grace like a cheap souvenir,
like a light switch you flip when the coast isn't clear.
tellin me time makes the sharp edges round
while I'm still picking shrapnel up off of the ground.
they preach "let it go so your spirit can heal,"
as if erasing the damage makes the wreckage less real.
God, please
forgive me,
for the heat in my blood and the dark in my decree.
You know the trial, You know the trial's toll—
but I don't and won't let it go.
who said I had to?
who wrote that law?
who decided the victim gotta smooth out the flaw?
who made you the measure of how I survive?
who said this dark fire ain't what keeps me alive?
I hold the fury. I lock in the sting.
I wear the heat like a signet ring.
I will never let this anger or this hurt go—
it's my steel, my boundary, my dynamic flow.
it is the armor forged in the furnace of your deceit,
the raw, unrefined power that keeps me on my feet.
so fuck your feelings.
fuck your fragile, manufactured pride.
fuck the new relationship,
the temporary fix,
the cheap, secondhand ghost you dragged inside.
Chocolate peaches
are no good—a fake sweet coating over a rotten core.
avoid the Leos
and their ego trips, their staged production,
their backstage door.
fuck the situation you engineered with your own hands—
you dug the trench, now lie in the sands.
you get what you grew.
the universe doesn't owe you a cushion for the crash.
good, bad, or brutal—
whatever harvest is waiting at your door,
you earned every single seed.
don't look at me for sanctuary.
don't look at me to validate the rot.
fuck our shared history.
fuck the years, the blood,
the sweat, the sacrosanct myth of "us."
it isn't a monument anymore—it's industrial waste.
it's a ghost story told by a liar.
I burn the archives.
I wipe the slate down to the bare, cold stone.
no poetry for the enablers.
no rhythm for the rewrite.
I ain't ready, I ain't soft, and I will never release this scar.
just the absolute, mathematical truth from where we are:
fuck your situation.
fuck your history.
fuck your feelings.
and straight to the marrow of it—
fuck you, too.
(mic cut—pure static)