There's a Complacency to It.

There’s a Complacency to It.

It lies in the white lipped smiles.

The awkward nods.

The eyes that stare and dart away.

It’s the, I know it’s true and it’s real, but . . .

It’s the taking another’s pain and crafting a sword.

Gods know how many cuts I have now.

This walking horror story —

It really has no end.

No future.

No breath.

There’s justice in the honesty.

The direct truth.

But my voice is an echo.

A repeated pattern. A chasm.

The questioning of, How do we move on?

I don’t know how. I don’t know how.

It’s a chant. It’s a ritual. It’s a curse.

Not when there are still ghosts in these halls.

Artificial lights flickering, on off, on off.

The ghosts linger still.

And the tight lipped smiles nodding and knowing,

continuing, on and on and on.

The harm they see.

It’s still what they create.

And the complacency to it —

that's the rot of tradition.

The fake safety of perpetuating harm for personal gain.

The hollowness of a skeleton

that should be worn, seen.

What villain is still my friend?

Make your insides your outsides.

It’s only fair.

In all its authenticity.

xx. Rae Iolene

22 September 2026