I will end you,
This was not thunder, but a whisper.
The words were knives placed edge-down, unseen,
until they rusted inside your bones.
Not a blow at first—no. A glance. A silence.
Then, the slow drip of hours stretched thin,
like thread unraveling from the soul's loom.
I will end you,
and it won’t be with fists.
It will be the slow suffocation of days.
The tightening noose of questions—
Are you sure you remember?
Do you think anyone else would put up with you?
Love, soured to vinegar. Promises, bruised like overripe fruit.
Each hour leeching the light from your eyes—
until you no longer ask what it means to be free.
Do not wait for an explosion.
The cruelest prisons are those with doors left slightly ajar.
I will end you.
It was always a war without banners,
a siege of the mind, patient as rot,
wrapping your days in barbed wire,
until the only victory you long for
is sleep without dreams.
Time drips, slow as honey,
poisoned drop by drop—until it owns you.
Not just the hours, but the spaces between.
And still, you stay.
Not from love, but from a thing worse:
The belief that this ending
was always the only story ever written for you.
-Hermit King-
edits by Sean
