A little something I wrote at the start of 2025

This will prolly be kind of an introduction to who my hb Zeos is?

Don’t kill me, I suck at writing

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I always thought envy would feel loud. Green, foaming, theatrical. Something that announces itself like a villain stepping into the light.

It wasn’t.

It was quiet. It was procedural. It was a ledger balanced in the dark.

I learned early that love is a finite resource, rationed like wartime bread. Marque received his portions warm, buttered, applauded. I learned to survive on crumbs and the echo of praise meant for someone else. People say comparison is the thief of joy, but they never mention how neglect is the architect of comparison. I did not measure myself against him because I wanted to—I did it because the world handed me a ruler and told me my worth was everything he was minus everything I wasn’t.

They called him brilliant. They called me “promising,” which is a word adults use when they don’t intend to wait.

I did not hate him at first. That’s the lie they want—the simple one. Cain and Abel, knife and blood, jealousy as instinct. No. I loved him in the way shadows love light: by existing only because it does. But love curdles when it is never returned in equal mass. It sours into arithmetic. Into questions like why him and why never me and what cosmic jury decided this symmetry was fair.

By the time I prayed, it was already too late. Not to God—God had proven remarkably uninterested—but to anything listening. To the old things that live in the margins of morality, the footnotes history pretends not to read. I offered them my conscience like collateral. They didn’t even negotiate. Power slid into me like a thesis already written, and all I had to do was sign my name at the bottom.

People think the moment I killed him was explosive. That it felt like apotheosis. Like finally stepping out of his silhouette.

It felt administrative.

A correction.

As if the universe had made a typo and I was the one tasked with erasing it.

When he looked at me—confused, betrayed, still believing I was his brother—I understood something obscene and irreversible: that innocence is a luxury afforded to those already protected by love. His shock wasn’t moral. It was logistical. This wasn’t how the story was supposed to go. He had plans. Futures assume survival.

I had only inevitability.

Now they bind my hands and call this justice, as if justice isn’t just violence with better branding. The crowd wants catharsis. They want my death to mean something neat, something instructive. A parable. See what happens when you let envy fester. They will go home lighter, believing the rot has been cut out.

But rot doesn’t start in the fruit. It starts in the soil.

If I am a monster, I am one they farmed carefully—watered with indifference, fed with comparison, praised only in proximity to someone else’s shine. I am the negative space in a portrait that never included me. I am what happens when neglect gains sentience and learns rhetoric.

The blade is cold. Fitting. I spent my life adjacent to warmth, never inside it.

Do I regret it?

That word assumes a world where I was given another viable shape.

I regret that there was never a version of me that didn’t have to become this loud just to be seen.

History will remember Marque as a tragedy.

It will remember me as a warning.

But warnings are only useful if someone is listening.

And judging by the crowd—

they never were.

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Eh, as I said it’s old and I might edit it over and over again.

But please do give me feedback I hope to improve!

And also if u don’t understand what the fuck is going on, feel free to ask questions x