they have turned pain into currency,
woven suffering into badges of gold,
stripped the quiet of their shadows,
to share a throne they never built.
it is not that pain speaks louder,
but that the room listens harder;
there is no justice in the silence,
so we cling to echoes like lifelines.
but tell me, what happens to truth
when the world craves the broken crown,
when scars become proof of existence,
when they barter grief for belonging?
do we all kneel for the ache now?
glorifying what we should mend—
a parade for sorrow, applause for agony—
a world more hollow than before.