feeding the murder
feels like handing pieces of myself
to something that never learned the word enough
I keep thinking I can stop
that I can pull my hands back
wipe them clean
pretend I didn’t feel the heat of it
pressing closer
waiting for whatever I still have left
there’s this ache in me
a kind of trembling hunger
that isn’t even mine
but I carry it anyway
like a responsibility I never agreed to
like someone whispered
you owe this pain a home
and I believed them
I watch myself give in
again
again
as if repetition could make it make sense
as if the wound would soften
if I kept opening it
I don’t know when I started confusing survival
with surrender
or why I keep feeding something
that only grows sharper
the more I try to quiet it
all I know is
I’m tired of being the offering
tired of pretending the hurt isn’t real
tired of feeling my own hands
shake
as they reach out
one more time
even though I swear
I don’t want to anymore