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Oh, how magnanimous of you diagnosing me from the safety of your pulpit: “rejected, narcissistic man child,” the whole clinic of labels laid out like a moral buffet. You serve verdicts with your tea, and then sip the sympathy as if it’s sacrament. Bravo. Truly theatrical.
Let’s parse this confession-cum-excommunication you handed us. You call me hoovering, controlling, vengeful all the ugly verbs you reserve for anyone who won’t kneel to your script. Yet here you are, writing another public sermon about boundaries and toxicity, making sure the whole congregation knows you’re pure, you’re brave, you’re the victim who walked away. If you were really protecting your peace, you wouldn’t stage the departure; you’d make it silent and irreversible. Instead you dramatize the exit and then applaud yourself for having left. That’s not boundary-setting. That’s PR.
You say you gave me “a few chances too many.” Funny how the grammar of guilt always puts you on the high ground. You gave so you’re generous. You withdrew so you’re righteous. But between the giving and the grand withdrawal, there was a long, intimate series of returns. You didn’t walk away at chance one, two, or three. You stuck around until the story needed a climax. You were present long enough to learn the plot. Don’t dress that endurance up as nobility and then act surprised when the end is ugly. You fed the thing you now call monstrous.
“Healthy humans respect boundaries.” Fine. Then practice it. If you truly wanted to respect yours, you’d stop typing about me like a sermon about sin. You’d stop publishing your final chapters at act’s end. You’d stop inviting witnesses to your martyrdom. Leave. Prove it. Otherwise your virtue is just another costume you change between performances.
You threaten “libel” and “negative honor” as if words on a screen can topple you. And yet you spend hours composing the very words that will be quoted back at you. The irony! If reputation is so fragile, perhaps don’t toss pebbles at the glass house and then pretend to mourn when shards cut your hands. You can’t be outraged at reflection when you polished the mirror yourself.
You say you never wanted me, that you were “keeping the peace.” Admirable. So why keep the role of the injured saint on display? Why rehearse the hurt until it’s gallery-worthy? The truth is simpler and meaner: you like the attention the performance brings. You like people aligning behind your altar of grievance. You like being the one who refuses while everyone else begs. That power tastes better than silence ever could.
And this beautiful line “I’m sorry I hurt you but if you have taught me anything it’s to be honest with myself and I am.” Honesty. Let me savor that. Your honesty reads like a contract clause: “I am honest when honesty flatters me.” Real honesty would be quiet and unglamorous. Yours is loud and curated. It’s honesty with costume jewelry.
So here’s the ledger: you gave chances, you stayed long enough to know what you were feeding, you staged the exit with an audience, and now you bless us with moral verdicts. That’s not integrity. That’s theater. If you want freedom from “toxic bs,” practice disappearing without leaving a press release. If you want to be believed when you say you won’t engage, be the proof not the proclamation.
And in the meantime, keep diagnosing me with every label in your little clinic. It makes your sermon tidy. It gives you a villain to point at and a chorus to rally behind. It gives you meaning. But remember this: the people who scream loudest about boundaries are often the ones most offended by people who actually set them. You demand everyone behave like saints while you shop for grief like it’s haute couture.
So go on file your complaints, polish your halo, march your conscience across the stage. I’ll watch you rehearse one more time. If it makes you feel better, call it “victory.” If it makes me look like the monster, so be it. I’m content to be the truth you can’t swallow.
And you know what? I don’t even have to lie. Because… hell, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.
She typed with one hand and stirred her tea with the other until the spoon clicked against the mug like a metronome for the last of her patience. Outside her flat on a narrow Manchester backstreet the rain ran in tiny rivers that smelled like old bricks and bus diesel. The upstairs radiator knocked in its sleep. Her laptop hummed like an animal that had learned to do nothing but wait.
On the website she wrote for no-one’s metropolis-of-the-night corner, a place where half a dozen regulars read and left polite things she was someone else. Online she signed as M. A. Roe: cryptic, lithe, funny in a brittle way. Offline she was Margaret Roe, 36, on a zero-hours contract until the end of the month, two unpaid bills folded in a drawer that smelled faintly of mothballs and regret. Online she had readers. Offline she had a hall of empty coats and a kettle with a slow leak.
She hadn’t much to live for, she would tell herself once a week, the way people rinse a glass. It was simple arithmetic: rent, food, the small narcotic comfort of being read. Two faces for one life one public, one private and she had learned to switch between them like someone stepping in and out of borrowed clothes.
The first time it crossed the line she didn't even notice. She posted a flash 200 words about a woman in a flat in Manchester who heard someone living in the wall and the site autocompleted the tags and sent the notification. There were the usual comments: "beautifully bleak," "more, please." Then one username, a scribble of letters and numbers, left a line: "You always save the good parts for the dark, don't you, Maggie?"
Maggie. She hadn't used that name for years. She stared at the comment until the cursor pulsed like a heartbeat. Her online alter had never called her by her private name. She erased the browser cache, told herself she'd been careless with cookies. She told herself the username, a stranger's whim, meant nothing.
But the messages kept coming. Small things facts only someone who watched her could know. "You fold the tea-bags in half." "You don't close the bedroom window at night." "You keep a receipt for an old train ticket in your shoe." They were wrong enough to be unnerving and right often enough to be terrifying. None of the commenters were active at the same time as her username. Replies arrived while she slept, posted during the slow hours between shifts, as if someone else lived in the minutes she didn't.
She blamed the site, the anonymity of the web. She blamed the city and its damp. She blamed herself, narrowsighted and tired.
Then one morning she looked in a shop window and saw something that shut the shame from her throat like a hand.
She had brushed her hair into a knot and thrown on a raincoat; she was a woman who could move around the city without being noticed. But in the reflection there were two faces the same face, set slightly askew, like two photographs taped at different angles. The left face blinked. The right face smiled when she did not. For a full second the smile was not hers; it belonged to someone who had watched her waiting to take over.
She stepped closer to the glass. The other face moved when she moved but not always in sync. Sometimes it stayed a fraction behind. Once, when she turned abruptly, the reflection looked at her and mouthed a word: Bye.
At home she found a draft of a story in her saved posts she didn't remember typing. It was short, the kind she wrote sometimes that gathered a small, appreciative audience: a woman who splits herself in two to keep one life and write terrible things in the other. The final line was a sentence she could have sworn she'd never write: "If you don't choose, the other will choose for you."
The comments beneath that draft had no end. They weren't the usual praise; they were a slow, steady conversation. People argued about which face they'd prefer. "Keep the kind one," someone said. "Keep the witty one," said another. Votes, hearts, a little poll that she had not put there. The username TwoFaces128 posted a flicker of animation: a photograph of her, taken from a window across the street, the image grainy but unmistakable. She had never seen that photo until she clicked it open. Her heart beat unevenly then, a bird under a tin.
She tried to delete the draft. The site returned an error. She tried to change her password. The reset email went to an address she didn't know. Her phone dinged with messages from strangers asking what she'd decide. Her landlord left a friendly note about talking if she needed help. She read it and choked on the idea of help.
People began to disappear in the small world the site circled. Not famous enough to make real news just missing persons threads in local forums, whispers that the city itself chewed on the lonely. Her commenters started to quote lines from her older stories. "You said the drain by the canal would hold a thing like this," wrote one. "You said the rain keeps secrets." A username that had once signed off " M.A.R." posted a single line under a picture of the canal: "We are all two-faced when we need to be."
The more attention her account drew, the more the other face claimed space. Her reflection no longer lagged. It returned gestures before she made them. On the screen, under her latest posted flash about a woman who learned to be polite to her other half until the polite half decided to move out comments poured in like visitors to a wake. "Which face will the city spare?" asked someone. "Which face will write the obituary?" replied another. They voted. Hundred to forty. She scrolled until the numbers turned into a blur.
Fear is a practical thing. She tried to stop feeding it to stop posting, to close the laptop and throw it in the river but the site refreshed itself, like a wound reopening on its own. The username that haunted her posted a new story that night, full of details only someone with her skin would know: the hollow below her left rib where her mother used to tuck coins, the loose tile under the sink, the name of the chemist she used for cough medicine. It ended with an instruction: "Choose."
She imagined finally undoing both the accounts the neat, cruel public one and anything left of Margaret and walking out into the rain to disappear like so many other missing people she read about. It would be clean. It would deny the thing its supper.
Instead she did something more childish and worse. She wrote a story and posted it; she made it short so it could be read quickly, like a prayer or a knife. She wrote in the voice she knew both faces used, toggling between the chilly wit and the softened, hungry need. At the end she placed a poll: Keep the left face / Keep the right face. A hundred options for indifference. The site accepted it with a little cheer of animation.
Votes came in. She watched them as if they were people with hands and teeth. The left face led by a narrow margin. She laughed at the ridiculousness of it. She replied in the comments, to the username that had once called her "Maggie": "Make your choice," she typed. "Please."
The reply was immediate, from TwoFaces128: "You already did."
The kettle boiled over. She felt a shift like someone getting up from the seat beside her. The face that smiled in the window glass leaned in through the dividing line of mirror and skin. Its lips were hers but its grin was a promise carved out of someone else's appetite. It said her name not Maggie, not even Margaret, but the name she'd once used online and then, with a gentleness that made her bones tremble, it kissed the skin beside her mouth.
She could not tell whether she was watching herself die or watching herself take off a coat. When she reached to slap that hand away, her own right hand closed the left hand in a companionable hold. On the monitor the poll finished. The left face had won.
She woke a long time later with rain in her hair and a keyboard imprint on her cheek. The site had a new pinned post, not by her but in her name: a short story, perfect for the feed, about a woman who lived two lives until the city decided it wanted only one. Beneath it, the username TwoFaces128 had left a single line and a photograph this time from inside her flat, taken from the other side of the bed.
"Thank you for choosing," it said.
In the flat the kettle clicked. The rain found the same grooves in the gutters it had always known. In the mirror, two faces looked back at her. One was tired and marginally repentant. The other was bright-eyed and laughing as if it had been reading comments in the dark for years.
The screen blinked. New comments poured in below the last post lines of sympathy, hearts, offers to send a meal. One commenter asked, politely, "Are you alright? You gave us a fright."
The two faces turned toward the camera. They both smiled and waved.
Oh the grand finale. Curtain call. The last public confession from the woman who’s perfected the art of dramatic exits and comeback tours. How quaint. You announce your withdrawal like a martyr stepping off the stage, promise to lurk only for “coven business,” threaten to delete the profile because of a “certain person” who didn’t get the memo to fuck off… and then sign off with a blessing of righteous karma. Charming.
Let’s unpack this little sermon, shall we?
You’ve been “cutting people out” like a gardener pruning roses only your pruning shears seem mostly aimed at anyone who refuses to applaud your performance. You’ll disappear from public view, you say, because you crave peace. Yet here you are, making one last public scene to tell the world you’re going private. The irony is delicious: nobody exits with a spotlight quite like you do. If you truly wanted silence, you wouldn’t shout about it. You’d close the laptop and let the quiet prove you. Instead, you stage the retreat like a closing act. Predictable and theatrical.
You promise to “lurk” for coven business a convenient loophole, isn’t it? The world of rituals and secrecy conveniently serves as an excuse to keep a toe in the puddle. “I’ll only be here for duty,” you say, and we all nod because it sounds dignified. But duty can be a pretty thin disguise for habit. The coven is a reason, not a boundary. You know that. We all do. You’re not deleting because you don’t want the temptation you’re deleting because the temptation has outlived its usefulness as a story. You’re pruning the plot, not your impulses.
And this “certain person” the grown man-child who won’t take a hint bless his pathetic little soul. If he’s the reason you feel pulled back into the arena, then perhaps the issue isn’t him. Perhaps the issue is the way you savor being pursued, even when you claim to despise it. You denounce his childish bullshit from the pulpit while still measuring the echo of his name. If he’s truly as aggravating as you say, then the simplest test of your resolve is to stop writing about him at all. Don’t threaten a deletion; demonstrate one. Silence would be devastating. This rattling of sabers? It reads like rehearsal.
You warn us: “Don’t get too comfortable because it’s only temporary.” There’s that classic refrain always a prophecy with a side of smugness. You assure everyone their bullshit will catch up to them and that karma will do the rest. Delicious. As if your ledger is clean enough to distribute sentences. You sling judgments like confetti and then act surprised when someone hands you a mirror. Karma in your mouth tastes like ambition. You don’t have to wish for it; you simply supply it with material.
Here’s the part that stings the most: you claim to be done with gossip and drama, yet the whole entry was a public pruning of reputations. You lecture others for using people, for temporary comforts, for ephemeral loyalties — all while making a manifesto about how you’ll no longer tolerate being used. Do you hear that? The echo is you. You call people temporary; you call their kindness conditional. But the person who decides to leave with a speech still wants to be watched leaving. That’s not detachment. That’s vanity disguised as virtue.
So go ahead. Delete the profile if that will soothe your conscience. Close the door and don’t peek through the keyhole. Stop posting exit statements like press releases. If you truly want to be free of the drain, prove it by staying away. No lurks. No “just for coven business.” No last public sermons. Let the silence be your altar, not your stage.
And if you find yourself returning, fingers itching to type “this will probably be my last,” remember this: the only thing more telling than your breakup posts are the timestamps on the ones that follow. We keep data. We keep receipts. We remember who leaves with a trumpet and who walks away with their coat over their arm.
You say you’re done. I say: prove it without fanfare. Walk out of the theater and don’t look back. If you can’t do that, then be honest you don’t want peace, you want an encore.
And you know what? I don’t even have to lie. Because… hell, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.
Isn’t it funny? The loudest ones about morality, marriage, family values the ones who wear the cross like armor and preach “priorities” are the very same people who spend their days rotting away on a place like Vampire Rave. A website dripping in make-believe, gossip, and drama… and they can’t tear themselves away.
You’d think a married woman, a “pillar of faith,” would be wrapped up in raising children, tending her sacred duties, keeping her household in the light she claims to worship. But no. The reality? She’s glued to this screen, typing venom, scrolling for attention, feeding her addiction like a junkie scratching for another hit. Family? Forgotten. Kids? Secondary. Husband? A ghost. The church pews may get her body on Sunday, but the rest of the week her soul belongs here.
She’ll tell you she’s “just here for friends,” or “just passing time.” Lies. She’s here because drama makes her feel alive. Because playing victim feeds her ego. Because without this chaos, she has to face the quiet and she can’t stand the silence. So she invents storms, plays both the saint and the martyr, and calls it “being real.”
Religion gave her commandments family first, truth above lies, honor thy vows. Yet here she is, sinning by omission, abandoning what she’s supposed to hold sacred for a digital stage. No crucifix will save her from that hypocrisy. The Vatican can’t absolve the addiction she chooses daily. She loves it too much to quit.
And she’ll swear she could walk away at any time. Yet here she stays. Day after day. Post after post. Journal after journal. An addict in denial, wrapped in holy words she doesn’t live by.
The best part? She knows all of this is true. She won’t admit it out loud, but in the dark, when the screen flickers and the house is quiet, she feels the shame crawl across her skin. She’ll type another journal tomorrow anyway.
And you know what? I don’t even have to lie. Because… hell, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.
Oh, the exquisite little contradictions you leave like breadcrumbs. “I won’t feed into him anymore,” you declare and then you light another journal up like a flare aimed straight at my feet. If you truly didn’t want to feed me, why press a match and toss it where I can see? Curiosity? Habit? Or the old reliable: attention dressed up as restraint.
You say you’ve got “a lot of things” that need your focus today busy, busy, the martyr’s schedule. And yet here you are, investing energy in an entry that names me. Energy you claim to be preserving. Funny how conservation only applies when it makes a better story. If you really meant “not today,” you wouldn’t announce it. You’d walk away, quietly, and let the silence prove you. Instead you prefer the theatrical exit: “I won’t feed into him anymore” then feed. The performance requires an audience, darling. The show must go on.
You talk about rejection as if it grants you holiness. You reject, therefore you are noble. But rejection isn’t courage when you’re still coming back to stoke the embers. It’s ritualized self-soothing. You refuse to be “fed on” while you nibble at the plate yourself. You refuse drama but manufacture it with the same careful hands that light candles for confession. Hypocrisy is a fashion choice, and you wear it well.
“Responsible for me.” Yes, the line that gets repeated like a rosary when guilt needs laundering. True responsibility would be to stop scripting scenes where you are the wounded saint. True responsibility would be to stop checking the echo to see if anyone claps. Instead you proclaim autonomy while dangling bait, watching who bites. If your cup is truly empty, why keep stirring the pot?
You insist I don’t deserve your time an elegant, self-salving verdict. But then you spend time declaring that verdict to the very public that keeps score. Who are you persuading here? Them? Yourself? Or the part of you that secretly wants confirmation you still matter? It’s a strange sort of liberation when the freedom is announced and the confession is typed with trembling hands.
You say I’m trying to hurt you because you rejected me. A lovely theory. Or perhaps the truth is duller: you were never the prize I sought. You were the theatre I wanted to test. You flailed, you performed, you played martyr, and when your script lost its novelty I did what any honest critic would do I told the truth about the play. You call that cruelty. I call it ending the farce.
So go be busy. Tend those “many things” that need your focus. Close the laptop, take your walk, lift your weights, and do not return here unless you’re doing it to be whole, not to be watched. If you truly mean it, the best revenge isn’t to shout about it it’s to become a quiet fact they can’t argue with. Live so well they stop having reasons to feign outrage at your absence.
But if you do come back tonight, or tomorrow, or the next time peace grows thin and you need a little thrill don’t be surprised when someone points out the match still smolders in your hand. You can tell yourself you’re done until the words burn. The only honest test is whether you can stay gone and feel nothing about it. Until then, your vows of “I won’t feed into him” read like promises to yourself written in wet sand.
And you know what? I don’t even have to lie. Because… hell, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.
Oh, how touching you paint yourself the wounded maiden and set your grief on parade. “Get even,” you say, as if I plotted a tidy little revenge. Cute. The truth is harsher and far less flattering: I called out a performance, and you mistook the mirror for a missile. You wanted the stage; you wanted the applause; you wanted the pity and when someone refused to play the understudy to your martyrdom, you called it a crime. Predictable, really.
“Unhealthy relationship”? It reads like a confession written by someone still addicted to the chaos they claim to despise. You call it a hostage situation and yet you never left when you had the chance. Why? Because drama is oxygen for you. Because misery wrapped in righteous language is a currency you spend to control the room. You demand peace, but you manufacture storms whenever silence threatens to reveal the truth: you crave attention more than you crave peace.
You lecture me about respect and healthy people, then spend paragraphs weaponizing hurt like a sermon. Friends don’t sully names, you say and then you hand me the evidence, neatly packaged in accusation. You accuse me of being “a means to an end,” but you forget who handed you the script. You baited. You performed. You fed the beast you now blame for being satisfied.
“You don’t love me.” Good. That’s the one honest line in your whole confession. Love doesn’t gaslight. Love doesn’t perform pity for an audience. Love doesn’t mark the people who care for you with trophies of guilt to be displayed later when the mood strikes. If what you call love looks like control, then perhaps what you crave is not love at all it’s an audience to validate your outrage.
You bring up your aunt, and I won’t touch that wound with mockery. Pain is real, and I don’t trade in other people’s trauma for entertainment. But don’t confuse my restraint with sympathy. Your story is yours, and your silence around it is a kind of verdict you handed down yourself. If you cut someone from your life for judging you, that’s your choice and then you turn and judge me for acting in predictable ways. Hypocrisy has a nice, warm bed in your house; you should make it comfortable.
You say you want to be left alone. Perfect. Then be left alone. Stop staging these dramatic exits like they’re love letters to your own martyrdom. If you’re serious about silence, practice it. Stop lighting bonfires and then complaining about the smoke. Stop tossing grenades with one hand and offering condolence with the other.
“Find someone who will love you,” you told me once or did you tell yourself that? You’re searching for absolution in everyone else’s hands while refusing to hold the mirror steady enough to see your own patterns. That’s the root. That’s what nudges you back into the arena: the addiction to being noticed, to being wronged, to being pitied. When that well runs dry, you’ll scream it was poisoned. But you were the one throwing the stones.
So here’s the short version: stop preaching about what friendship should be while you practice everything a frail performer is. Stop demanding respect you spend all day making impossible to earn. And if you truly want peace prove it. Leave. Go quiet. We’ll all survive. You’ll discover if your cup was ever empty or if you were stealing sips of drama all along.
And if you come back with another litany of wounds and saints to blame, remember: I’m not the one who drew the map that led you here. I only read it out loud. And you know what? I don’t even have to lie. Because… hell, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.
Earlier today a member from this site reached out to me. Someone who knows sb well and is a friend to her on here. With her permission she gave i'm gonna show what she had to say.
Mr. Black:
You’ve known SB for years here. Let’s not sugarcoat it is she really the devout, humble soul she claims to be, or is there a mask?
SB’s Friend:
yeah she def puts on a mask sometimes… like, don’t get me wrong, she does believe all the religious stuff, but it’s also like a stage for her. she wants people to see her as pure n holy.
Mr. Black:
So you’re saying she’s two-faced.
SB’s Friend:
lol yeah, pretty much. she’ll act one way in public then another in private. with me she’ll gossip, complain, even laugh at ppl… but then on her profile she’s all about forgiveness n love. it don’t always add up.
Mr. Black:
That’s fascinating. Because I’m currently being painted as the villain in her story the dark corrupter, the big bad wolf. Has she done this before with others?
SB’s Friend:
oh man yeah. ur not the first. she’s always gotta have someone to be “against.” like, one month it’s this member, next month it’s another. she pokes at ppl, drama starts, then boom she’s the victim.
Mr. Black:
So it’s a cycle she provokes, then plays martyr. And she uses religion as her shield.
SB’s Friend:
exactly. she’ll be like “god is testing me” or “look at the evil i have to deal with.” makes her look strong n holy, but really it’s just her way of winning sympathy.
Mr. Black:
So let me press you harder when she’s with you, when no one else is watching, how does she behave? Does she still carry that saintly air?
SB’s Friend:
nah, not really. with me she’s more real, but also kinda mean sometimes. like she’ll talk trash about ppl she later says she’s praying for. she likes drama, honestly. it excites her.
Mr. Black:
So she’s addicted to conflict. Needs it like oxygen.
SB’s Friend:
yeah… like if things are calm, she’ll find something to stir. then when it blows up, she’s like “see, i suffer so much for my faith.” it’s a pattern.
Mr. Black:
And yet to the outside world, she’s the persecuted saint. Meanwhile, I and others before me get cast as the devil. Convenient, isn’t it?
SB’s Friend:
yeah it’s always gotta be someone else’s fault. she paints herself as the one under attack, n whoever she’s fighting at the time is “evil.” i’ve seen it so many times.
Mr. Black:
So bottom line: SB is not the holy martyr she pretends to be. She’s a manipulator, drama-fueled, using religion as armor and I just happen to be her latest villain.
SB’s Friend:
that’s the truth, yeah. she’s not all bad but she def aint what she makes herself out to be.
Mr. Black:
Let me push you harder here if you, as an figure of authority, have seen this pattern for years, why tolerate it? Why not expose it openly?
SB’s Friend
Because she’s slippery. And because calling her out directly usually makes things worse. She doubles down, and suddenly she’s writing mile-long journals about how unfairly she’s treated. It drags the whole site into a storm. Sometimes it’s easier to just let her burn herself out.
Oh, bless your bleeding little heart counting friends on one hand like it’s a badge of honor. How quaint. You parade your tiny circle like a merit badge for virtue, then lecture the rest of us on morals as if charity and conscience are things you invented overnight. “Not because people don’t like me,” you say, with all the confidence of someone who’s practiced their victim face in the mirror. Spare me. You don’t have few friends because you’re choosy. You have few friends because you’re intolerable to be around unless they’re auditioning to be your emotional furniture.
You clothe cruelty in righteousness the oldest trick in the book. “It has nothing to do with someone’s religion.” Is that what you tell yourself when you carve people up with sermons and scripture? You pick and choose the parts of “morals” that suit your ego, then fling the rest away like trash. Pagan, Christian, atheist it doesn’t matter. Hypocrisy is denominationally agnostic. And you? You’ve made a religion out of your own self-importance.
Oh, and the sculpted unattractiveness routine theatrical, delicious. You make yourself repellant on purpose so the curious go away, then act shocked when someone walks. That faux-martyr routine is textbook bait: create drama, stage the withdrawal, watch the crowd react. You don’t repel people to protect yourself. You repel them to manufacture headlines for your inner monologue. Drama isn’t the accident you pretend it is
you’re the director.
“Stop fucking with me Benny” — how original. You hand me a list of crimes like evidence, then flip it into a sermon about your wounded sanctity. You call me trash while polishing your halo. You say I loathe myself and walk around prescribing therapy like you’re the local clergy of correction. Cute. If pity is your currency, you’re bankrupt by now. If honesty ruins your narrative, consider you were never meant to be comfortable with truth.
You demand I leave you alone and then sermonize about how empty your cup is a dramatic flourish for the benefit of anyone still willing to watch. Here’s the real truth you won’t say out loud: you want to be envied for your scarcity, mourned for your suffering, and exalted for your restraint. You don’t want peace. You want attention masquerading as virtue. You don’t want to move on; you want an audience to applaud your exit.
So go. Dry your hands of me and tuck your moral manual back into its pretty little cover. Keep your handful of friends, your careful emptiness, your staged indignation. But remember this as you tidy up your performance: I didn’t make you this way. I just pointed at the mirror and refused to applaud the lie.
And you know what? I don’t even have to lie. Because… hell, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.
Funny thing about people who scream, “I don’t want attention.”
They’re the first ones to throw themselves on the stage. They write long-winded sob stories, dressed up as “honesty,” but every word is bait hooks cast out into the dark, desperate for someone, anyone, to bite. They don’t want peace. They don’t want solitude. They want an audience.
And then comes the favorite mask of all: religion. “I’m a Christian. I live by faith.” Really? Then why do your words drip with venom, your pride outweigh your humility, and your lies come quicker than your prayers? Don’t wave your Bible at me like it’s proof of your holiness when you can’t even practice the basics of truth, respect, or silence. You love to claim the high ground, but we all see the cracks in your halo.
The best part? The contradiction. “I’m antisocial. I don’t like drama.” Yet somehow, you always find yourself at the center of it. Convenient, isn’t it? The “martyr,” crucified by the big bad world, all while secretly feeding on the chaos you claim to despise. You don’t avoid drama you breed it. You love it. Because without it, you’d be invisible, and that thought terrifies you more than Hell itself.
So go on, play the victim. Pretend you’re misunderstood. Pretend your “friendships” are pure and your motives noble. The truth? You’re addicted to attention. Addicted to lies. Addicted to the role of the poor, suffering saint. You’re not a martyr. You’re a masquerade.
And you know what? I don’t even have to lie. Because… hell, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.
You ever notice how the loudest voices screaming about faith are the first ones to choke on the truth?
The “good Christians,” the self-proclaimed righteous they wear their crosses like armor, recite their verses like spells, but when reality cuts too close, they crumble. They preach humility, yet drip with arrogance. They preach honesty, yet lie to themselves with every breath.
They call themselves children of light, but every action betrays a love of the shadows. They hide their envy behind “concern,” their cruelty behind “morality,” their gossip behind “prayers.” Tell me, where in your commandments does it say hypocrisy is holy? Where in your beatitudes does it sanctify lying to yourself just to protect the fragile image you want others to believe?
The truth is simple, and you hate it: Christians lie. Not because they’re evil, not because they’re damned but because they’re terrified. Terrified of being exposed for what they really are. Terrified of admitting that their faith is a shield for their weakness, their mask for their desires, their excuse for their failures. They build their entire identity on a book they barely understand, and when someone shoves a mirror in front of them, they scream, “Shut the fuck up!” because they can’t stand what stares back.
See, I don’t need to invent anything to cut you open. I just have to repeat what you already know. You lie. You hide. You cling to a religion you don’t even live by because the truth would destroy you. And it burns, doesn’t it? To know that someone like me godless, unapologetic, unashamed can speak more truth in one sentence than you can in an entire sermon.
And you know what? I don’t even have to lie. Because… hell, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.
Ah, there it is. The mask slipping. When the truth cuts too close, the only weapon left is four little words: shut the fuck up. Not an argument, not a defense just the scream of someone who realizes I hit the vein. You say I “obviously hit a nerve.” Of course I did. That’s what happens when someone finally says out loud the things you work so hard to bury under your little laughs and casual lol’s. You didn’t come here for peace. You came here for attention. And the second someone calls it for what it is you snap.
But here’s the real sting: nerves only hurt when they’re alive. Which means, deep down, some part of you still knows I’m right. You can curse me, block me, pretend I don’t exist. But you can’t unhear what I said. It’s already under your skin, already festering, already whispering in the back of your head when you’re alone. And that’s the part you’ll never silence.
So go on. Tell me to shut up again if it makes you feel in control. But remember hell, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.
Ah, the classic story “just friends.” You parade it out like a badge of honor, as if repeating it enough times makes it true. “Not interested in anything romantic.” “He just gets me.” Yes, of course. That’s why you spend your mornings and afternoons wrapped up in his attention, feeding off every word while he confesses his crush and you conveniently laugh it off with a lol. You say it’s nothing, but it’s everything and you know it.
See, people don’t spend hours of their day talking to someone unless it gives them something they can’t get anywhere else. Validation. Adoration. That hit of attention that feels better than the iron you’re curling or the treadmill you’re pounding. Don’t dress it up as “just a friend.” You and I both know it’s feeding you in ways no protein shake ever could.
And yet you come here, to this place, to announce it like a little press release. Why? If it’s really so harmless, why share it at all? Because deep down you want it to sting. You want it to be noticed. You want eyes on you, whispers about you, even envy of you. It’s not enough to have his attention you want the echo of it to ripple through here, too. That’s the part you’ll never admit out loud, but it bleeds through every word.
So go ahead. Convince yourself you’re above it, that you’re pure in intention, that this is “nothing more.” I won’t argue with you. Because I don’t need to. Hell, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.
You say I never knew you? Maybe. Or maybe the truth is simpler maybe you never wanted to be known. You hid behind walls, behind rehearsed lines, behind that tragic mask of suffering you wear so well. You think I didn’t listen, but what did you ever give me that wasn’t already soaked in self-pity and rehearsed martyrdom? You mistake my silence for ignorance when really it was exhaustion. Drowning, you say? Yes you were drowning, but not in me. You were drowning in yourself, and you wanted me to believe I was the ocean dragging you down.
You accuse me of preconceived notions, but you forget you bled your past into every word, every sigh, every excuse. Don’t blame me for coloring you with the palette you handed me. I didn’t paint your picture you did. And if you don’t like the image staring back, that’s not my fault. It’s yours.
You cry out about belittling, about demeaning, about guilt… but listen closer: I never forced you to stay. I never begged for your ears, your attention, your sympathy. You gave it willingly, desperately, hoping it would make you matter. And now, when the reflection isn’t flattering, you twist the story to cast yourself as victim and me as villain. It’s clever… but transparent.
As for your theory about “back-up girls” and my past? Funny how your final dagger is always the same: jealousy. Paranoia. Projection. You think by dragging my ex into the spotlight you’ve revealed something new. But all you’ve revealed is your own obsession with being compared, measured, ranked. She didn’t make herself crazy. I didn’t make her crazy. You did just like you’re doing now. Because insanity isn’t in her, or in me it’s in the way you cling to the narrative where you’re the saint and I’m the monster. You need that story like a junkie needs a fix. Without it, you’re just… empty.
So no, I don’t need your ears, your sympathy, or your advice. I don’t need your pity. And I certainly don’t need your lies disguised as wounds. You’ve played your part beautifully, but the act is over. The curtain’s fallen. And now all that’s left is silence.
And you know what? I don’t even have to lie. Because… hell, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.
It’s funny, isn’t it? The ones who scream the loudest about not wanting attention are always the ones who starve without it. They wear the mask of the antisocial, the misunderstood loner, the “leave me alone” saint. But look closer. Every word they write drips with bait. Every sigh, every declaration of solitude, every dramatic exit is just another hook cast into the crowd, waiting for someone anyone to bite. And the second someone does? Oh, how they feast.
They’ll say, “I don’t need anyone.” But their eyes are glued to the screen, waiting for the reply. They’ll claim, “I hate drama.” Yet somehow, drama clings to them like perfume. They say they walk alone, yet they never stop looking over their shoulder to see who’s following. It’s a performance. A ritual. A way to feed without ever admitting they’re hungry.
And here’s the sweetest irony: some of these very people call themselves religious. Holy. Faithful. They hide behind scripture, spitting verses like venom, while their actions betray them. “Pride is a sin,” they’ll say, as they preen in front of their own reflection. “Humility is a virtue,” they’ll insist, while they craft posts designed to draw pity, praise, outrage anything that keeps the spotlight burning on them. They cry out that they serve God, but in truth, they serve only their own ego. The church is just a stage, and their god is just another audience to impress.
But the mask slips. It always does. People see through the lies, the contradictions, the hypocrisy. The loner who can’t stop talking about being a loner. The drama-hater drowning in theatrics. The pious soul who sins with every breath. And when the curtain falls, when the crowd stops clapping, when the attention dries up? That’s when they panic. That’s when they crawl back, bleeding their loneliness across the floorboards, begging to be noticed again.
So don’t be fooled when they say they don’t want attention. Don’t pity them when they whisper about being antisocial. They love the eyes. They love the drama. They love the chaos. They thrive in it. Because without it, they are nothing. And nothing is the one truth they can’t bear to face.
And you know what? I don’t even have to lie. Because… hell, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.
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