The Infinite Starr

You want the story.
The one dressed in soft apologies and clean escapes.
The one with a million lies sewn into a fairytale ending—
the one where you’re the misunderstood hero, the tragic soul, the one who meant well.

You want the kind of ending where pain wraps itself up in a bow and says it all made sense in the end.
But it didn’t.
Not because life was cruel.
Not because people are heartless.
But because you were too afraid to move.

Waiting.
Always waiting.
For the perfect timing, for the right words, for the heavens to part and declare it’s safe now.
You don’t realize that the only thing holding you back is you.
Not the weather.
Not the world.
Just the reflection staring back at you, waiting to be honest for once.

You want peace, but you’re the one screaming.
You want freedom, but you’ve got the keys to your own cell hidden in your fist.
You want love, but you can’t even stand to be alone with yourself.
You blame the mother who didn’t love you enough, or the father who loved you too much—
or the idea of both that you made up to avoid facing who you’ve become.

You want to be everyone but who you are.

And still, you wonder why nothing changes.

You walk around with a storm in your chest, thundering through every room,
wondering why no one stays.
You were never the calm after the storm—
you are the storm.
You were the cloud that threatened rain when all they wanted was a bit of sun.
Not to worship you. Not to save you.
Just to breathe in peace for a second.

But peace was never what you gave.
You offered confusion wrapped in charm, chaos dressed in charisma.
You walked around pointing fingers like swords,
sharpened by stories you never bothered to rewrite.

They didn’t stab you in the back.
You never faced them.
You never turned around.
You kept your back to the world, guarded by pride,
so convinced that everyone owed you something.

And when they finally walked away,
you called it betrayal.
You never saw the mercy in their leaving.

Here’s the truth no one ever tells you:
You made this mess.
You burned the bridges and cursed the smoke.
You were the prison guard, the locked door, and the prisoner weeping inside it.

And no, there’s not some great revelation coming.
No savior moment.
No hand reaching down to pull you from the wreckage.

Just the quiet.
Just the walls you built to keep everyone out finally keeping you in.
And the echo of your own voice asking why,
with no one left to lie to.

You wanted the world to feel sorry.
But no one’s watching anymore.