THE MASK SLIPS IN THE END
They told their stories
as if repetition made them true,
as if the echo of a lie
could bury the sound of my name.
But rot has a scent.
Even roses wilt
when they’re fed on poison.
I have watched them build their stage,
curtains drawn tight,
every word rehearsed,
every gesture polished to perfection—
yet even the brightest spotlight
cannot bleach a soul.
They mistook my silence for surrender,
but silence is not weakness—
it is gathering.
It is patience pressed into steel.
It is the storm deciding
where to break.
I do not need to argue.
I only need to live.
And with every breath,
every step forward,
their empire of whispers
collapses into dust.
Truth does not tremble.
It waits.
It watches.
And when the time comes,
it burns through disguise
with the ferocity of fire.
The day will arrive
when their own reflection
becomes unbearable,
when the mask they crafted
shatters in their hands.
Because no matter how long they hide,
no matter how carefully they rehearse,
the mask always slips in the end.
Keep My Words Alive
If this poem has stayed with you, you can help keep my words alive or explore more of my work. Every bit of support helps carry the stories forward.
