You don’t knock, you break in.
Through windows of thought, through locked doors of skin.
You whisper filth in a velvet tone,
Make me question what’s mine, what’s known.
You wear my voice like a well-fitted glove,
Coax me with guilt, not fury or love.
What if? you ask, with a smirk so sly—
And suddenly everything good feels like a lie.
I check the locks that were never undone,
Wash away sins I’ve never begun.
I rewind the tape, I beg, I plead—
But you’re not a guest. You’re a need.
A ritual dressed in rational clothes,
A thousand cuts no one else knows.
I bleed in silence, smile on my face,
While you dance circles, laced in grace.
You say I’m bad.
You say I might hurt someone.
You say I forgot something,
Left the door unlocked, left the gas on,
Left the world one breath away from burning—
and it’s all my fault.
You lie with such confidence
that I start to believe you.
You ruin good days.
You poison my joy.
You take my daughter’s smile and twist it into fear—
because what if I’m not good enough for her?
What if I ruin her, too?
You dress up in my voice, wear my thoughts like a second skin,
and I let you in
because I’m scared of what happens if I don’t.
But I’m tired.
So fucking tired.
And maybe tomorrow I let you in again.
Maybe I do the thing.
The routine.
The penance.
The apology tour for sins I never committed.
I won’t kill you. I won’t beat you. But I’ll drag you through every sunrise, bloodied and breathing, and I’ll still be standing.
