Look at you… trembling, whining, clutching at your own pathetic little heart as if the world owes you mercy. You parade your misery like a crown, expecting everyone to bow to your imagined suffering. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.

And yet, beneath that trembling mask, I see it. The serpent coiled in your chest, the knife hidden behind your trembling smile. Every tear you shed, every pitiful sigh—it’s all theater. All lies. You play the victim… while stabbing everyone foolish enough to trust you.

Do you even realize how ridiculous you look? How easily your false sorrow is pierced by the truth that you are nothing but a backstabber, a manipulator cloaked in self-pity? You think your whining excuses your betrayal. It doesn’t. It never will.

You feed on pity, on sympathy, on the naïve kindness of others. But don’t mistake me—I do not recruit haters to despise you. I don’t need to. Your actions, your venomous little games, your poisonous heart… they do it all for you. You are your own enemy, your own disgrace, your own undoing.

So continue to cry. Continue to clutch at your illusion of suffering. It suits you… because the world will see you for what you truly are, sooner or later. And when it does… oh, how small, how pitiful, and how utterly contemptible you will appear.