I.

I was born beneath the illusion of matter, raised in the narcotic glow of “Purpose”. Fed on Myths of meaning, on lies with teeth and wings. On Hope dressed in rotting flesh. But I have puked the lie I have scrapped the smile off my face and found nothing beneath.

II.

There’s no higher self. There’s no calling, no core. Only the echo of causes colliding in dust, only hunger. Only Trauma pretending to be transcendence. I do not seek truth, i seek cessation.

III.

I am my own contradiction, a cadaver rehearsing animation. A scream echoing in a different chamber. I do not need peace, i don’t want healing. I want to be over.

IV.

You ask what i am becoming, but becoming is a curse. Growth is a cancer, fullfilment is a joke whispered in hospice halls. The best version of me is when i am no longer required to be. No Voice, no hunger, no Reflection.

Only absence. Pure. Beautiful. Absolute.

V.

So I Unmake myself, not in violence but in ritual disavowal. Each thought discarded, each dream drowned, each identity peeled away. Like Rotting Skin from Bone. Until nothing remains but the shape of what once was. And that shape, that hollow, is perfect.

Final Word:

I will not be remembered, i will not be avenged, i will not be saved, i will not be. The best version of me is when i am no more. Etch it into the walls of your cage and wait for the silence to agree.