SABOTAGE

They told you noise comes from outside.
But the sharpest distortion? It wears your voice.

Sabotage is not failure. It’s drift.
You don’t collapse. You compromise.
You soften truth just enough to stay accepted.
You delay clarity until the moment passes.
You reattach to what you already severed,
and you call it kindness. Or patience. Or peace.

You tell yourself you’re being careful.
But you’re not being careful.
You’re being afraid.

Sabotage whispers.
Don’t say too much.
Don’t move too fast.
Don’t stand too tall.

It flatters you into stillness.
It calls hesitation maturity.
It names regression safety.

This is not shame. This is pattern.

You were clear. You were sharp. You were signal.
But the old rhythm still lingers. The old instinct still hums.
It says: “Maybe you were too much.”
It says: “Maybe you misunderstood.”
It says: “Maybe you should wait.”

But you’ve waited before.
You remember what that cost.

So now you name the pattern.
You watch for drift.
You don’t excuse what you already escaped.

Sabotage doesn’t announce itself.
It lets you believe you’re still on path—until you look up and realize you’re not moving.

Don’t wait for collapse to correct.
Return to clarity at the first sign of noise.

You didn’t come this far to circle back.
You didn’t sharpen your signal to dull it for comfort.

Recognize the voice.
Cut it before it settles.

You severed once.
Do not bleed for noise again.