They always said loyalty was sacred. They dressed it up in promises, in eye contact, in that sacred grip of flesh to flesh — the handshake. But trust was their weapon. And I, like a fool, gave them the ammunition. They shook my hand, smiled, and while my guard was down, they slid the blade straight into my back.
That’s the beauty of betrayal. It doesn’t come from enemies storming your gates. It comes from the ones who walk in through the front door with your permission. The drink you shared, the laughs, the late-night secrets — all of it wasn’t camaraderie. It was reconnaissance. They weren’t allies. They were spies. And my trust was the currency they bought the knife with.
When Trust Becomes a Weapon
Trust was their weapon because it’s invisible. You don’t see it coming. It doesn’t clank like steel or reek like gunpowder. It slips in unnoticed, under the disguise of “I’ve got your back.” And when that mask falls, you realize the truth: you built your own gallows and handed them the rope.
The world worships trust. They tell you trust is the foundation of relationships, of politics, of business, of bands, of society itself. Bullshit. Trust is a currency that predators exploit. It’s the sugar-coating that hides cyanide. And when the knife digs into your back, you finally understand — trust wasn’t the glue. Trust was the weapon.
Stabbed by the Handshake
Let me describe it so you feel it too. You meet someone. They shake your hand firmly, with the right squeeze, the right nod. You feel a spark of connection. Maybe you even think: “Finally, someone who gets me.”
But every word, every nod, every “I’m with you” — it’s calculated. They don’t mirror you because they care. They mirror you because they’re arming themselves. And when the stage is set, they don’t just let you down. They stab your back with the very hand you thought was holding you up.
Betrayal Is the Oldest Religion
History is full of this shit. Politicians promising liberation and delivering shackles. Lovers whispering “forever” while texting their next fuck. Bands claiming unity while plotting solo deals in the shadows. Betrayal is older than any holy scripture. Judas didn’t invent it. He just branded it.
Trust was their weapon, and betrayal is its altar. Every time you believe too easily, you become another sacrifice burned alive on the altar of someone else’s ambition. And they don’t even have the decency to admit it. They hide it under excuses, polished lies, and cowardly silence.
The Provocation: Maybe It’s Your Fault Too
Here’s where I’ll piss you off. Maybe the betrayal is partly your fault. You handed out trust like it was candy to kids at Halloween. You didn’t test it. You didn’t challenge it. You didn’t see that hunger in their eyes. You wanted to believe — and belief is the addiction that feeds betrayers.
I’m not saying you deserved the knife. I’m saying you invited it. And if you’re honest with yourself, you felt the blade long before it cut. You saw the signs. You ignored them. Because faith in people is the most dangerous drug — and you were overdosing.
Rebellion Through Scars
What do you do when trust was their weapon? You wear the scar like a badge. You turn the wound into armor. Every betrayal is a lesson that shapes sharper claws, harder fists, a colder heart. You don’t stop trusting entirely — that’s cowardice. No, you start trusting differently. Slowly. Strategically.
You become the predator instead of prey. You don’t just shake hands — you test them. You squeeze harder. You look longer. And you listen for the cracks in their voice, the tremor in their mask. You turn trust into your own weapon. Not naïve, not blind. A calculated gamble that only you control.
Trust Was Their Weapon — Now It’s Mine
I don’t preach forgiveness. I don’t believe in “moving on.” I believe in vengeance, in venom, in refusing to forget. They thought betrayal would silence me. Instead, it gave me lyrics, riffs, screams that burn through speakers like napalm.
Trust was their weapon. They stabbed me with it. But I melted down that blade, reforged it, and now it cuts both ways. When I extend my hand today, it’s not a handshake. It’s a test. It’s a warning. And if you dare stab again, know this: my scars are sharper than your knives.
Final Words: Never Forget the Knife
The handshake is never innocent. Behind every smile hides a potential dagger. But betrayal doesn’t end you — it makes you venomous. They thought trust was their weapon. Now it’s my arsenal. And when I declare war, it’s not with guns or bombs. It’s with memory. With scars. With venom that never forgets.
So go ahead, shake my hand. Just remember: I’ve already counted your fingers, mapped your pulse, and seen the twitch in your eyes. You’ll never stab me again without bleeding first.
Visit our official website: https://venomoussin.com/
Join the rebellion on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@venemoussin
Feel the scars in sound on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/4SQGhSZheg3UAlEBvKbu0y?si=qKMljt6rT1WL0_KTBvMyaQ
