I used to write gently.
Let the metaphor bloom
before I buried the body,
then buried the lede.
Let language unravel
like stolen ribbon—
then strangle the scene
it slipped from.

I used to offer softness
like it wouldn’t run out.
Let your cruelty masquerade
as clumsiness.
softened your edges
with my own skin.

I won’t stitch myself smaller
for men who call me complex
while collapsing under complexes—
then call me poetic,
like that’s the point.

You said,
“That’s not what I meant.”
I said,
“I know.”
And dragged the line
like a corpse
through the ******.

Framed the silence
in gold leaf
and gall.
Made you a myth—
then fed you to it.

You said,
“The right thing is to walk away.”
So I followed you
into the poem
and made sure
you never left.

You wanted a loophole.
I wrote you scripture.
You wanted soft closure.
I carved your apology
into a tombstone—
your smile etched wrong,
your teeth too sharp
even for fiction.

They never looked kind.
They never were.

Don’t ask
why my version hurts more.
Ask why yours
never held up—
until I told it
wrong
on purpose.