Dead Kids Can’t Be Controlled

Dead Kids Can’t Be Controlled

They loved you more when you were quiet.
When your smile was forced.
When your spine was bent just enough to fit into their mold.

They don’t say it out loud,
but some people only love you when you’re dying slowly.
Polite. Palatable. Presentable.
Dead on the inside and still smiling for the picture.

So you went silent.
You shrank.
You bled and didn’t complain.
And they called it strength.

But death has a funny way of waking things up.
And when you came back?
Oh, you didn’t return to please them.

You came back flaming.
Unbothered.
Unruly!

They thought they’d buried you.
But they didn’t realize:
You were soil,
and something darker bloomed.

You don’t owe them your softness.
You don’t owe them closure.
You rose without their permission, and that’s what makes you dangerous.

You are not their fantasy.
You are not their fix.
You are the ghost they can’t unsee,
the scream behind their curated calm.

So haunt proudly.
Hex elegantly.
And walk like you dug yourself out
on purpose.

Dead kids can’t be controlled
because we write our own resurrection.

SOME NEWS:
🖤 Hawai'i, I have something super special in store for you! Even the person out there who knows, doesn't know the whole deal. Stay tuned.
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