our hate lives in my art (p2)

It never cried. It never fought. But heaven and hell, alike, they remembered what I bought. Some turned away, some told me “don’t,” some shrugged, some stayed, I chose the ones who didn't cared. That’s how a habit grows its spine: it learns applause, it learns its time. What soothed the chest turns monochrome, each breath brings harm to home. Wounds I defended turn to law, scars made banner, pain turns cause. if I keep quiet, they wouldn't even awe if I do equal, they wouldn't even pause. But fear relearns itself as seethe, defense erupts from underneath. To spare the body, something dies, salvation cuts to rescue , without leaving ties. Leave it alone, it spreads its claim. Remove it, loss remains the same. Most harm is not from spite or hate, but patience learned after a second late. So if I shed my cursed tongue, my brutal words, their's borrowed fun, I won’t be pure. I won’t be saved. Just somewhat unsure and depraved. Art won’t die. It will just ask who I am to you without th