by someone who doesn’t clap for clowns in stolen crowns
They say ignorance is bliss —
and some of y’all?
Must be in euphoria.
Living in fairytales
where the villain wears your cologne,
and the princess is… someone else’s wife.
But sure, call it love —
like rebranding betrayal makes it ethical.
See, I used to think truth came dressed in white,
soft, glowing, angelic.
Turns out?
She wears black.
Smokes out illusions.
Rips off masks like party favors.
And she doesn’t knock politely.
She kicks the damn door down.
Knowing what is real —
it’s not a gift, it’s a rebellion.
A wild, unapologetic stand
against half-truths,
gaslight gospel,
and love affairs built on “but it’s complicated.”
Let me clarify something:
It’s not “complicated.”
It’s calculated.
Because narcissists don’t fall in love —
they recruit.
They mirror your light,
wear your words like costumes,
then sell your empathy for applause.
And those who call it fate?
Who wrap deception in destiny
and bow to desire like it’s divine —
congrats.
You’ve spiritualized self-sabotage.
Must be exhausting,
living with that much performance art
and still calling it “alignment.”
And oh — today’s your birthday?
How poetic.
Another year of self-worship,
another candle lit on the altar of your own ego.
Should I write you a card?
"Happy Born Day to the king of projection,
may your lies age like spoiled wine."
Meanwhile, I?
I sit with reality.
No filter. No edit. No script.
It’s sharp sometimes,
lonely often,
but damn — it’s mine.
And it doesn’t require me to pretend.
See, the audacity
isn’t just knowing what is real —
it’s choosing it,
when fantasy throws herself at your feet
wearing lies that smell like comfort.
It’s standing in a room full of masks
and not wearing one.
It’s watching the circus,
recognizing the act —
and walking out mid-show.
Because truth doesn’t need an audience.
It just needs someone
brave enough to stop clapping.
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