My final pen on a paper
?The ceasefire is revoked.
For too long, I have drafted treaties with my terrors,
Writing in the margins of my own life while the shadows
Occupied the center.
No more.
?Consider this paper the frontline.
Every stroke of this ink is a breach of your perimeter.
To the ghosts that lived rent-free in my silence:
I am served you an eviction signed in iron.
To the enemies who mistook my introspection for a white flag:
You were looking at the glare of a sharpening blade.
?I have spent a lifetime coding defenses,
Building firewalls around a heart that was already burning.
Now, I drop the shields.
I am the bug in your system, the recursive loop
That will consume every doubt until the drive is clean.
?I am not writing to be heard; I am writing to execute.
I face the mirror and I do not blink.
I face the past and I do not flinch.
If this is the "final pen," it is because after today,
There will be no need for words—
Only the scorched earth where my problems used to stand.
?I am the architect of the aftermath.
I am the commander of the cold morning.
Come out into the light and perish,
Or stay in the dark and be erased.
?The war is here.
And I am finally, terrifyingly, home.
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