Little by little, I’ll fade away,
a bit today, a bit each day.
Maybe the hurt will start to stray,
maybe my absence will learn to stay.

I’ll leave today, but not for good,
I’ll be back Wednesday—if I could.
But I won’t smile quite the same,
my voice will tremble when you say my name.

By Friday I’ll be steps ahead,
by Saturday, tears softly shed.
And slowly I’ll walk out your view,
but not before I say goodbye to you.

Each day that passes, I’ll become
a memory blurred, a beating drum.
Like books that gather dust and fade,
like hugs and kisses we once made.

And one day, softly, you will see,
a smile that’s not because of me.
Another face, another touch,
and you won’t miss me quite as much.

And when that day has come to be,
I’ll know you’ve finally set me free.
And though my heart may ache and bend,
I’ll know you’ll heal, and I’ll transcend.

I feel like a stranger in my own skin,
like a paper marked by hands that shouldn’t have been.
You painted on me with borrowed strokes,
colors I never asked for, lines I never spoke.

I tried to erase it all,
scrubbed until I bled.
But no matter how I try,
the red remains instead.

Why do I feel this shame,
when none of it was mine to claim?
Or is that just another lie—
one you left behind in my name?

Go on, throw another shade,
brush another lie across my frame.
Add one more mark on my arm—
pretend you never meant me harm.

Are you satisfied now?
Does silence taste sweet?
Is it peace you feel,
or just a hollow retreat?

The stains, they never fade,
they follow me—like ghosts that stayed.
I feel ***** in a way soap can’t cleanse,
not even the rain makes any sense.

I hope the paint on your hands never dries,
I hope guilt sleeps where your comfort lies.
And when you close your eyes,
may my tears echo in your skies.

My hands tremble still,
my voice quiet and thin.
You touched beauty and broke it—
I was never meant to let you in.

Run.
Let shame chase your steps.
Lie.
Wear your mask again.

Stain.
Things that were never yours to touch.
March.
Through lives you’ve broken too much.

Paint a little more.
Maybe that will hide the cracks.
Paint her, paint me—
but never give the colors back.

Your fingerprints are pressed on pages of my life,
you signed a name I never gave you the right.

Run.
Lie.
Scream.
Hide.

Paint.
Stain.
Break.
Divide.

Yo­u stole my innocence like ink on stolen lines.
Does your guilt whisper at night,
the way your memory haunts mine?

Sometimes I think of going back,
when my mind begins to scream.
When my body loses power,
and I fade into a dream.

Sometimes I'm close to giving in,
when laughter doesn't stay.
When everything feels heavy,
and the light just slips away.

And when I go back, I wonder:
was it worth that brief escape?
A second of still silence,
for a year of endless ache?

I go back... but I don’t speak it.
I hold it in and fake it.
Don’t want to hear their questions,
or see the way they break it.

I know I made a vow,
but I broke it, somehow.
Once again, I crossed that line,
once again, I said "this time."

To you, it’s been nine months.
To them, it’s still unknown.
To me, it never ended.
I’ve faced this all alone.

It returns when I get angry,
it returns when I just stare.
It returns when tears come easy,
it returns when no one's there.

It never really leaves me,
it hides in every mirror.
It speaks inside my silence,
it echoes every fear.

Red eyes, like every time I fall.
A guilty mind, behind it all.
A heart that whispers what I hide.
A soul too tired to even cry.

Going back feels automatic,
living feels so problematic.
Pain is loud, yet I stay static—
and healing? Never truly magic.