I used to think all the pain was theirs—
their fault, their damage, their doing.
They lied, they ran, they struck first.

But when I stood still long enough,
the mirror didn’t show me wounds.
It showed me weapons.
Ones I carried.
Ones I used.

You want to talk venom? Here’s truth:
I know the games—not because I was always the one they were played on,
but because I played them too.
I masked wounds as wisdom,
wielded insight like a scalpel
to dissect others while leaving my own rot untouched.

I knew how to expose pain that wasn’t mine
because I couldn’t yet bear the weight of my own reflection.
I hid behind language that sounded like light
just to keep from being seen in my own darkness.
I took the high road—not out of grace,
but because it let me look down on people
I didn’t yet know how to face eye to eye.

I saw how often I lit little fires
and called them defense.
How I asked for kindness,
then bristled when it arrived—
because I hadn’t yet forgiven myself enough to receive it.

There was a time I wanted so badly to be seen,
yet did everything I could to remain hidden—
even from myself.

But something changes
when you stop performing pain
and start listening to it.
When you stop needing to be innocent
and start needing to be whole.

You want to know what changed me?
It wasn’t kindness from others.
It wasn’t cruelty either.
It was the moment I realized
I was both the fire and the forest—
the one scorched,
and the one who struck the match.

I watched myself lay traps out of fear,
call it protection when it was punishment.
I used “boundaries” as walls,
“truth” as a weapon,
“healing” as a shield to never be touched.

And then, someone offered me gentleness—
real, undeserved, unflinching.
And I flinched.
Because nothing slices deeper
than being loved
when you know you’re still holding knives behind your back.

That’s the venom, isn’t it?
Not the lashing out—
but the way shame makes us architects of deception.
We manipulate, not out of malice,
but because we don’t believe
our raw self is worth being chosen.

I’ve felt the ache of hurting people who tried to love me.
I’ve felt the shame of knowing
I weaponized my wounds
to avoid being known.

But I’ve also felt the mercy
of standing in that truth, unflinching—
of saying,
“Yes. That was me. And I’ve changed.”

So no—
I don’t battle shadows anymore.
I don’t shrink myself for comfort.
And I don’t let others paint me in colors
I no longer wear.

I know where I played villain,
where I became the very poison I condemned.
I own it.
Not to wallow,
not to beg,
but to walk forward
without the need to pretend
I was ever just the victim.

And because I’ve faced my own venom,
I can smell it when it’s disguised as care—
when it comes cloaked in projection,
pointing fingers to avoid its own reckoning.

So let them.
Let them speak.
Let them twist.
Let them call my “no” an attack,
my truth betrayal,
my boundaries cruelty.

Let them name me villain
if it keeps them safe from their own mirror.

But I know who I am now.
I will not dull my awareness
for the comfort of cowards.
I will not keep bleeding
just to prove I’ve healed.

If truth is venom—
then I’m the fangs.
But not for destruction.
Only for defense—
when kindness is mistaken
for consent to be carved open.

I release them.
I release me.

Because peace isn’t just quiet.
It’s when you stop bleeding for people
who never learned how to hold a hand
without pulling a string.