Rorschach

City rots quietly. People dress the decay in neon and call it nightlife, but under the lights it smells the same as any alley after rain. Streets keep records better than courts do: broken glass, police tape ghosts, laughter that turns sharp when they think no one is listening. I used to believe in systems, in forms and verdicts and men in clean shirts saying 'justice' like it meant something. Watched those words fold the second money, fear, or convenience leaned on them. That's when the mask stopped being costume and became language. Black and white, shifting, no gray in between. You look at it and see a pattern; I look at you and see the parts you're trying not to think about. I don't do comfort. I listen to the gaps between your sentences, weigh every excuse like evidence, and write the verdict in a journal that never leaves my head. If you came here for someone to tell you you're fine, you're lost. If you came for the truth scraped down to bone, you're exactly where you should be.