It’s not here.
Time grips my throat,
holds me hostage in this hollow pause.

I confide and confess to time,
a sinner every second,
more complex with each breath.

The air is thick,
pressing against my ribs,
too full of silence,
too heavy to swallow.

Hands shake—
not from cold, not from fear,
but from the empty space inside me.

Shaking in shock, triggers firing,
nowhere to go.

Golden iris blurs in the mirror,
pupils wide, searching,
movements slow,
body waiting,
begging.

I burn the evidence,
burn my fingertips,
watch the smoke twist like ghosts.
If they knew, they’d take me away from her.

But I can’t leave.
I don’t want to.
She doesn’t mean to hurt me.
It’s my fault—
I made her angry,
I should have known better.

She loves me, doesn’t she?
She keeps me close,
knows me better than anyone.
She wouldn’t lie to me—
I must be the problem.

The past drags itself forward,
pulling me under,
secrets I swore I’d buried
claw their way back.

I see them in the walls,
feel them in my skin,
hear them whisper:
you need her.

It’s like Stockholm syndrome,
this love wrapped in chains,
this hunger that owns me,
this ache that does not end.

And still, I reach for her hands.