Step right up!
No
Sit.
Still.
Swallow your popcorn
and your pride.
The lights are low,
but the lies?
Blinding.

Welcome
to the circus of smoke and spin,
where the tent’s stitched together
with stretched truths and
narratives thinner than tightropes.

You want a show?

Boom
Contortionists
twisting facts ‘til they snap,
bending reality like it owes them rent.

Bang
Limbo dancers
sliding under the bar of basic decency,
dropping lower than your standards,
dodging blame like it’s a dodgeball tournament.

Flash
Sleight of hand!
Watch them shuffle guilt
into your pocket
and call it your idea.
Watch the trick:
Truth disappears,
only to reappear
when it’s convenient.

Yeah
All this, and more,
from the comfort of your own delusion.

Is this the greatest show on Earth?
Or just
a sold-out spectacle
playing on loop
inside your mind?

I get it.
It’s easier to make monsters
than mirrors.

Easier to dip brushes
in blame,
color the past in broad strokes
of “he hurt me”
instead of “I’m broken too.”

You hang our history
in that museum of memory
where every frame
features someone else’s failure
never your fingerprints
on the shattered glass.

I walk those halls sometimes.
See myself,
fangs bared,
eyes red,
a villain stitched together
from every lie
you needed to tell yourself
to sleep.

Each canvas:
a scream
trapped in acrylic.
Each name:
a tombstone
in your mental mausoleum.

But how many portraits
before you realize
the only common thread
is the hand holding the brush?

You keep painting
to forget,
to stay numb,
to convince the world
it was always them,
never you.

But healing don’t live
in curated suffering.

When you finally scrape
the layers off the canvas,
look past the shadows,
see the soft ghosts
of your own mistakes
haunting the corners

maybe then
you’ll paint something honest.
Something messy.
Something real.

Not a gallery of grief,
but a window.

Not a villain.
Not a victim.
Just a girl
who learned to tell the whole story
out loud.