The Ruin Script

she no longer writes to feel at ease.
she writes to make them bleed.
each word. each line. each stanza.
a scream dresses in rhythm.
they laughed,
but they did not see the ink was red.
in silence she found her weapon,
in fiction, her revenge.
she kills through metaphors—
smiles while stitching every traitor,
into prose she only understood.
not elegies, but executions.
not heartbreaks, but hauntings.
no names needed,
just memories rearranged.
they live on these pages,
begging. buried. burned.
this is not a confession,
this is a curse she pens with grace.

author’s note:
— bled by @achilleusdeirdre
— eleventh of july, year 2025
— open to criticism; all echoes welcome.
— lowercase intended for signature writing.