No Trash Deeper Than Blood
They teach you young, don't they? Not with words, but through repetition—through silence where comfort should've been. Through eyes that look past you. Through smiles that mean nothing and hands that strike when no one's watching.
I wasn't taught that people were beautiful. I was taught that people pretend to be. That underneath the skin, under the shared last names and fake traditions, is rot. And that rot runs thick in the blood—passed down like some cursed inheritance.
Family was the first mask I learned to recognize. The first lie. The first betrayal.
And once you see through that, once you understand that love—real love—isn't something handed to you just because you share DNA, you start to understand the world a little clearer. You start to expect even less from the people outside. Strangers, teachers, coworkers, friends—they're all echoes of that same system. Just less honest about it.
I was told not to trust easily. But they didn't say it with care. They said it like a warning from monsters who didn't want me to recognize their own reflection.
So now, when someone says "but they're family," I laugh. Because I know what blood really means. It means control. It means guilt. It means being bound to people who'd throw you to the wolves and still expect you to smile at the dinner table.
There is no trash greater than those who wear the same blood and act like they own your soul for it.
And if that's the lesson my blood gave me, Then I'll carve a new name from the ashes and run it cold through every vein.
You're an absolute retard if you think I act because I trust. It's because I expect nothing from them that I move. That I plan. That I calculate in silence. Trust is for people still waiting to be disappointed—I ran out of that currency before I even knew how to spell it.
You see, when you stop expecting warmth, you stop feeling the cold. When you know the knife's already in your back, you stop flinching. And when you stop needing anything from anyone, you become something else entirely.
Not cruel. Not broken. Just awake.
I don't wear a mask because I want to hide. I wear it because it keeps the stench out—the reek of desperation in their voices, the decay behind their smiles, the dead-eyed hunger of people who'll gut you with kindness if it gets them one step ahead.
They call it dysfunction. I call it pattern recognition. They call it paranoia. I call it preparedness. They say "You should talk to someone." I already did. They were worse.
This isn't about healing. This is about remembering—who I am, what I've seen, and why I walk alone even in a crowded room.
Because if blood taught me anything, it's that history repeats through the mouth of those who never bled for you—but always expected you to bleed for them.
So no, I don't trust. I move. Like shadow. Like instinct. Like something that learned long ago that if no one's coming to save you, you damn well better learn how to set the whole system on fire just to feel warm.
Let them smile. Let them speak in their soft, broken voices. Let them play their roles in this rotting little play.I'll be behind the curtain, redrawing the script in a language they'll never understand. One born of silence, scars, and certainty.
And the next time they look for me—I'll already be gone,along with everything they thought they owned.
Even the blood.