Strange Enough to Ruin Myself
A confession of self-destruction without regret
I am strange—
stranger than I ever admit.
Strange enough
to set fire to my own shelter,
and stand there
watching it burn
without a tremor of regret.
I dismantled myself
piece by careful piece—
not out of rage,
not out of despair,
but with a quiet, deliberate calm.
And when it was done,
when the dust settled
over the ruins of who I was,
there was no mourning.
No guilt knocking at my chest.
No sorrow asking to be felt.
Only silence—
steady, unbothered silence.
Perhaps that is the strangest part:
not the destruction,
but the absence of grief afterward.
What kind of heart
undoes itself
and does not ache?
What kind of soul
watches its own collapse
and simply shrugs?
I am strange.
Yes—strange enough
to ruin myself
and call it nothing.
About the Creator
Jhon smith
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