he presses (deliberate) each button,
soft as a whisper, sharp as a pin,
a smile that cuts, (the blade of him)
& she, unravels / unspools /
into noise.
you always, he says.
you never, he sighs.
his words,
a clever parade,
a firework bloom
of gaslighted skies.
her patience,
a thread—pulled taut, then frayed,
then gone.
and when she speaks (oh, the daring of it),
he shapes her syllables into storms,
ties her anger to the wind—
“see how you are?”
he grins.
she becomes the thunder (his storm, his proof).
her breath, a chaos of no escape,
her voice,
a house he burned down
but still blames
her for the flame.
until she folds her wings
into the cage he built—
silent. quiet. small.
not for lack of fight
but for lack of air.
and still,
his lies bloom sharp (oh, his garden of blame).
his hands, gentle knives,
carve her into someone she doesn’t know.
& he names her crazy,
wraps her in words like straightjackets
until she forgets
her name.
but even now,
her silence waits,
a seed beneath the ash.
her roots will remember—
one day,
she will grow back.
Can't sleep again tonight, so upset by memories of what he'd done to me.
