You wanted attention—
so I gave you a front-row seat to your own downfall.

You slithered into stories that were never yours,
clawed your way into rooms where your name was never whispered,
and poisoned wells you were never invited to drink from.

You thought if you smeared enough dirt on me,
you’d shine brighter.
But baby, even rats look clean in the dark—
until the lights hit.

You wrote me off like I was disposable.
But here's the plot twist:
It was never my name in the notebook.
It was yours.

I didn't have to lift a hand.
I didn’t need revenge.
The universe keeps receipts.
And you?
You're just another stain it decided to wipe clean.

Curiosity killed the cat, they say.
But you?
You died verminously—squirming in your own filth,
desperate for applause that never came.
Dead not by my hand,
but by your own hunger to be relevant.

So here it is. Your obituary.
Signed not in blood,
but in silence.
You lost the war you started.
You wrote the script for your own erasure.

Death note: verminously dead.
The end.