Dear IS,

Is it fair you hold the key to my drive— to make something, yet
make it too frightening to try? Your breath pretends to drift slow
in my ear, but beneath it, you’re clearing the field, planting seeds
of every fear you know will take root.

Is it the power lines I see wired from me to you— feeding your
hands as you siphon my strength, splitting my will from the things
I keep tucked deep in the vault of myself? As you arrange them like
weapons, calling each by name to remind me of the parts I’ve tried
to love but sometimes can’t.

Is it the way I urge, wish, and will to act— only for you to spool film
from my past, running old scenes like warnings until my courage
caves to your script? Your message is seen: as nothing moves unless
you approve.

Is that you, who rests on my chest like a stone, chastising, shrinking
me to the size of my doubts— small flaws made giant, slippery
floors of thought that tilt more than they ever should? Well… not
anymore. You don’t get to rule me, or write my rules.

Goodbye, Insecurity—as if I could ever feel secure in you.

Yours,
faithfully unfaithful,

Ex-companion.