THE WRATH OF THE BROKEN

I carried the wrath of the broken.

Or maybe—

It carried me.

 

Are we broken for the better,

Or just addicted to the dark?

 

A rose in the mud.

Wrong side of midnight.

Nothing grows here—

It survives.

 

Shadows of old friends

Linger longer than they should.

 

Laughter echoes—

Warped now,

Still sharp enough to cut.

 

There is a stillness

Between breaths.

 

Not peace—

Just pause.

 

We reach for it anyway,

Mistaking silence

For healing.

 

Trapped in the quiet unravelling,

We miss the tremors

Of collapse.

 

No impact.

No warning.

 

Just the slow, sinking truth—

 

We were never fighting anything else.

 

We became

The enemy

We swore we’d never face.