She makes bad choices,
patches them with good ones,
layers them thick—
a justification, a mask.
She shapes herself from others' words,
lets their feelings mold her form.
She takes the hurt, swallows it whole,
says it’s nothing—
until later, when she digs,
searching for meaning in the pain.
Attention soothes, guilt festers.
She convinces herself she needs them,
but when they don’t answer,
she pushes them away,
paints them as villains,
until they return—
then she spills the poison
she’s mixed with others’ whispers,
only to regret it when they leave again.
She tries to heal, she tries to stop,
but the urge always calls her back.
She trades one wound for another,
one habit for the next.
She speaks in half-truths,
tells them what they want to hear,
so they’ll give her a piece of themselves.
She offers fragments, never whole,
a script rehearsed, a story bent,
never letting them see the full weight
of what she holds inside.
She whispers how they all leave,
and when they do,
someone tells her it’s for the best.
She believes them—
for a little while.
Then she retreats,
fades into silence,
not cutting ties,
just slipping away.
She hates herself for this,
for the cycle,
for never stopping.