I moved out with quiet hope,
thinking space would bring us peace—
a chance to find my own two feet,
without the weight of being policed.

But distance hasn’t softened hands
that still reach in to shape my days.
You ask where I am, who I’m with,
as if I’ve lost the right to stray.

I keep some things to myself now—
not out of spite, but self-defense.
You’ve made it clear what you would say,
and silence feels like common sense.

You speak in circles when I’m gone,
but never straight when I am near.
I hear the things you’d never say
from others’ mouths, not yours, but clear.

And when I try to call it out,
you shift the blame, deflect the tone—
you’re angry not at what was said,
but how the truth to me was shown.

The one I thought I could confide in
turns out to be just one more line
connecting back to what you want—
not what I need, not what is mine.

So now I walk more carefully,
building space you won’t undo.
If love means anything at all,
it means I don’t belong to you.

I’m learning how to draw a line
between your fear and my own choice.
You raised me to become my own—
so let me stand, let go, give voice.

If you keep pulling every thread,
you’ll find the fabric comes undone.
You’ll lose the chance to know me now—
not your little girl, but the woman I’ve become.