The Quiet Executioner

No amount of tenderness can resurrect what has already turned to dust. When you have learned to accept neglect as a mercy, even love becomes a weapon you cannot bear to hold. You become a monument to unhealed wounds, a shrine to all the softness that once promised safety but only left you colder.

Kindness does not touch you the way it should—it lingers like an unwanted guest, suffocating in its weight. Your heart flinches not from cruelty but from the terrifying embrace of gentleness, because somewhere along the way, you stopped believing that softness could exist without pain.
And so, you wear numbness like an old coat, let indifference carve its home beneath your skin. But deep inside, something still aches—something still remembers the warmth it was once denied.