Content Warning
This poem contains graphic depictions of violence, abuse, sexual assault, systemic injustice, revenge, and trauma. It explores themes of righteous vengeance, horror, and divine retribution through a dark, poetic lens. Reader discretion is strongly advised, especially for survivors of abuse or trauma.

The blades have rusted since last we met.
But rust only sharpens resolve.
The table returns—
Its wood soaked in memory,
Its restraints hungry for guilt.
Justice was not a one-night feast.
No—monsters breed in silence,
And I am silence undone.

First: The Foster Parents
She called it “a blessing”—that monthly check.
Said the child should be grateful for a roof.
But the bruises weren’t from beams,
And the screams didn’t echo from joy.
He locked the child in closets lined with scripture.
She washed the blood from his fists,
Then set the table like nothing was broken.
Now they sit strapped together—
Hands sewn to each other’s shame.
I force-feed them silence in spoonfuls,
Play lullabies of sobs they ignored.
The belt he used now flays his own tongue.
Her eyes forced open to watch—
Just like she used to.

Second: The Revenge Porn Ex
He thought power was pressing “upload.”
Framed her in pixels, called it “freedom.”
She lost everything.
He gained followers.
Now he’s the exhibit.
Naked and looped on every wall,
His body becomes his prison,
Each image a tattoo of consent denied.
His screams aren’t blurred.
His shame isn’t edited.
And no one comes to take it down.

Third: The Conversion Therapist
She laid hands not to heal,
But to erase.
Told queer teens their love was illness,
That God would only listen if they bled.
She sang psalms while they shattered.
Now she kneels on broken glass,
The verses she preached carved into mirrors,
So every reflection mocks her grace.
Her tongue sewn to a rosary,
Each bead a life she bent—
Snapped straight until they broke.

Fourth: The Trigger-Happy Cop
He saw skin and called it threat.
Saw fear and drew steel.
Said the bullet was “procedure,”
Said the boy “matched the description.”
But the body was innocent.
The silence, deafening.
Now he’s pinned beneath a spotlight,
His badge melted down,
Dripped into his eyes—
So he sees,
For the first time,
What his justice really looks like.
No shield.
No radio.
Only the weight of names carved
Into his hollowed chest—
Each one a verdict he’ll never escape.

Fifth: The Therapist Who Crossed the Line
She called him “safe.”
He called her “special.”
Said no one else would understand.
Touched her scars with hunger,
Then blamed her for bleeding.
Now he lies on his own couch,
Sedated in shame.
Every time he closes his eyes,
She speaks—
And he listens, finally.
Every “I love you” he twisted
Now chokes him like a noose.

Sixth: The Wealthy Rapist
He wore tailored suits and courtroom smiles.
Said she lied,
Then paid her to disappear.
But guilt doesn’t take a check.
Now he’s stripped of silk and silence,
His name stitched to every wound she hid.
I press gavel-shaped brands into his chest,
Each one a truth he tried to bury.
Now, he’s the story.
And she’s finally free.

Seventh: The Online Predator
He typed sweet lies in the dark,
Promised safety, then devoured it.
Left young girls gutted by shame.
He called it “just talking.”
Now, I bind his fingers to the keyboard—
Force him to scroll through every name,
Every cry he deleted.
I turn the screen into a mirror.
He types apology after apology,
And each one burns his skin.

And me—
I stand again.
The blade reborn.
Seven new candles lit.
Not for forgiveness.
Not for peace.
But so no one forgets.
The table is not justice.
It’s memory made flesh.

And I am still here.
Unholy.
Unkind.
Unapologetic.
The shadow that watches
When the system looks away.

Author’s Note:
This piece was written as an act of catharsis and creative reclamation. “Table of Judgment: Volume II” channels the voice of B.D. Nightshade—my poetic embodiment of wrath, vengeance, and divine justice. It is not meant to glorify violence, but to confront the horrors too often dismissed, silenced, or ignored by society and the systems meant to protect us.

Writing this was painful—but necessary. If you made it through, thank you for bearing witness. And if you saw a piece of your own pain reflected here, I see you. You are not alone.
— Rowan Evans