Here, in the gauze of denial, a soul softens,
losing its edges, its bite, its clarity.
Evil sits across the room, legs crossed,
whispering sweetly—seduction in its tone.
It calls itself necessity,
then compromise, then, finally,
your closest friend.
Oh, but what becomes of the spine
when it bends too often?
When the first “no”
is swallowed whole,
and the second chokes on cowardice?
The mind, once sharp as glass,
becomes fogged,
a stained window looking in on itself.
This is how it happens—
not in one swift strike,
but in the slow, patient erosion.
Denial is a velvet noose.
It fits snug,
cradles the neck,
lulls you to sleep
while you forget
the feel of freedom,
the taste of truth.
And cozy—yes, cozy.
Evil loves a warm home,
a complacent host.
It will lay itself down
in the heart’s softest chambers,
humming lullabies of It’s not so bad,
You deserve this comfort,
This is survival.
And the soul, poor thing,
believes it.
But there’s a price.
The cost of living with rot
is to rot yourself.
To wake one day
and find your hands slick,
your tongue coated in silence,
your heart a dim, flickering bulb
in a room of shadows.
Tell me, darling,
how do you reclaim yourself
when you’ve given the best parts away?
How do you uninvite evil
once it’s learned
to wear your face?
B 🤍
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