There are nights
I can feel him pacing beneath my ribs,
dragging chains across the floorboards of my chest
like he’s tired of being buried alive.
You look at me
with those soft hands,
those merciful eyes,
and somehow you remind me
of the monster I am.
Not because you fear me.
God, that would be easier.
But because you don’t.
You stand in the doorway of my ruin
like light leaking into an abandoned church,
and all I can think is
how long before you see the teeth behind the prayer.
I have spent years
teaching my demons table manners,
buttoning rage into clean collars,
washing blood from my thoughts
until they almost looked holy.
Almost.
But you touch me
and suddenly every locked room inside me
starts kicking at the walls.
The thing I buried deep enough to survive
begins clawing dirt from its mouth.
You remind me of the fists
I swore I’d never become.
The wildfire in my veins.
The black water in my bloodline.
The ugly inheritance
I carry like a loaded gun behind my smile.
You make me remember
that monsters do not disappear.
They learn how to speak gently.
How to laugh at dinner tables.
How to hold flowers
with hands built for war.
And maybe that’s the cruelest part.
You make me want to be good.
Not admired.
Not forgiven.
Good.
But wanting redemption
doesn’t erase the graves inside a man.
So I keep him hidden.
That starving thing within my face.
That animal scratching scripture into my bones.
I keep him sedated behind humor,
behind silence,
behind “I’m fine.”
Yet every time you love me,
he wakes a little more.
Because love is cruel like that.
It shines light into places
darkness was keeping alive.
And one day
you may finally see him standing there.
The monster I’ve hidden beneath stitched skin and tired eyes.
And I wonder if you’ll still reach for my hand
when you realize
he has been reaching back all along.