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…

a temple once sacred in solitude,now sinks beneath dust and distance.it hymns no longer echo—only the wind dares to mourn.she once knelt there,a lady stitched in silence—offering verses like pledges,believing presence was enough.she spoke to empty skies;she prayed to hollow heavens—none listened. none stayed.the altar remembers,what trust chose to forget;what her ache refused to see.the…