Maybe karma isn’t real.
Maybe it’s just a bedtime story for the soft-hearted,
for those of us who keep bleeding at the altar
of “doing the right thing.”
Maybe goodness doesn’t echo back.
Maybe the universe just watches
as I hand over my heart in trembling pieces—
only to be met with silence,
or worse, indifference.

I’ve spent years planting kindness
like wildflowers in every direction,
but nothing grew for me.
Not even weeds.

So maybe I’m done.
Maybe I’m tired of waiting
for a cosmic receipt
on all the love I’ve given away
with no return address.

What if being selfless is just a slow form of vanishing?
What if all my noble sacrifices
were just quiet ways of saying,
“I don’t matter as long as you’re okay”?
And maybe I don’t believe that anymore.

Because I’ve watched cruelty win.
I’ve seen the cold-hearted bloom.
And me? I’m always the one left
nursing a heart that’s too full,
too open, too soft for this kind of world.

So maybe I want to be bad.
Not evil—just unburdened.
Just a little selfish.
Just once, I want to choose me,
without guilt dragging its nails down my back.

Maybe karma doesn’t come.
Maybe nothing comes.
Maybe life is just a series of choices—
and the universe doesn’t clap
when you choose the hard, good thing.

So here I am.
Heart cracked wide open,
but eyes wide open, too.
And if no one’s keeping score,
then maybe I’ll stop playing nice.
Maybe I’ll stop waiting for justice
and write my own.

Let the stars judge me.
Let the silence stay silent.
I’m done being good
if it means being forgotten.

Let me burn, if that’s what it takes
to finally feel free.