Sweet Relief

On the outside, I am sweetness.

Soft smiles. Warm eyes. Immaculate manners.
I apologize when other people bump into me.
I hold the door open for people who don’t say thank you.
I send thank-you notes for thank-you notes.

People think I’m an angel.

And I let them.

Because the truth lives behind my teeth.

Inside my chest is a swarm—every insult I’ve swallowed for the sake of being “nice,” every razor-edged truth I choked down because polite people don’t speak like that. Every judgment I never voiced. Every sharp observation that would have cut someone to the bone.

I’ve held them all.
For years.

They twist. They press. They writhe.
They whisper:

Say it.
Tell her she’s insufferable.
Tell him he’s pathetic.
Tell them you see through every lie.
Tell them you are smarter than all of them combined.

But I breathe, smile, and say,
“Oh, no worries at all.”
Or “Does that make sense?”
Pretending I don’t understand.

My venom simmers behind a perfect, pleasant smile.

Until tonight.

It starts with a tightness—right under the sternum. Like something stretching after a long sleep. Then a crack. A pop. A slow unfastening.

My ribcage opens.

Not metaphorically.

Physically.
It opens.

The first thing to crawl out is small, skittering, made of letters shaped like legs. It peels itself from my heart and drops to the floor, leaving a trail of punctuation behind it.

Then another.
And another.

My unsaid things spill into the room:

Snakes made from insults.
Insects spun from impatience.
Thin, sharp creatures stitched from judgments I never voiced.
Small, mean animals formed from every truth I pretended I didn’t know.

They swarm across my hardwood floors, sliding under baseboards, slipping between the cracks in the walls.

They disappear into the night to haunt the people who earned them.

And I let them go.

There is no horror.
No guilt.
Only relief.

The weight in my chest vanishes.
I feel light.
Almost holy.
Like confession, but honest for the first time.

Tomorrow, people will wake uneasy.
They will feel watched.
Judged.
Exposed.

They will second-guess themselves.
Flinch at their reflections.
Be conscious of their own incompetencies.

They’ll hear soft, crawling things in the corners of their rooms whispering the truths I never said aloud.

And none of it will come back to me.

I will still smile.
Still hold the door.
Still tilt my head just right when I’m listening.

People will still call me “kind,”
“sweet,”
“such a lovely person.”

And they’ll never suspect:

All the ugliness I hid so well is finally free.

And the world is softer for me having let it out and crueler for everyone else.
What sweet relief.

When Darkness Dines

The room was breathtaking—rich tapestries draped along stone walls, a fire snapping in the great hearth, candlelight quivering like it feared the dark. Something unspoken curled in the corners, a soft, forbidden tension. The masks didn’t help; jeweled things with feathers and lacquered smiles, hiding faces but not intentions. Silk rustled. Corsets creaked. Perfume and smoke mingled in the air like gossip.

We were told the game was simple.
One rule, whispered to me as my mask was tied.
Once you lift your glass, you must never let it touch the table again.

I thought it was harmless. A charming superstition. A silly custom for a silly party.

The night glittered with conversation—flirtations, laughter, soft touches, secrets passing like contraband. When the host raised his cup for a toast, we all followed. Crystal chimed in a chorus. My drink was warm, thick, sweet in a way that lingered too long on the tongue.

We cheered. We turned. We moved.

And without thinking—
I set my glass down.

A tiny sound, barely a click.
But it split the evening in two.

The room stilled.
A collective inhale.

Silks froze mid-sway. Masks pivoted toward me like flowers tracking the sun.

Heat climbed my cheeks. I snatched the glass back up, desperate to undo the mistake, and—again without thinking—I took another sip.

This time the gasp was sharp. Almost delighted.

My head swam. Thoughts thickened, slow as syrup. The floor shifted under my heels. A warm trickle slid from my nose; I brushed it away and my fingers came back red.

Blood dotted my glove.
Blood dripped down my bodice.
Blood bloomed like a dark flower across the front of my gown.

The masked faces around me—white-eyed, gleaming—watched with hungry silence.

My chest tightened. The candlelight thinned. My vision folded in at the edges like dying paper.

I staggered toward the next room, but the doorway drifted farther and farther. My legs gave out. I collapsed onto the ballroom floor, skirts fanning around me like a fallen curtain.

Their masks hovered above me—floating, inhuman, unmoving. Their breaths were low, animal, anticipatory.

“It was just a game,” I whispered.

Something shifted in the shadows.

A soft rustling rose behind the masks—not from them, but from the dark pooled along the walls. The candlelight faltered. A heavy scent crept through the air, damp and old, like earth turned too deep.

The masks did not move. 

They watched as the darkness leaned in—slow, deliberate—finally allowed to dine.