What is it about me that made you decide I was deserving of this desecration? What shadow did you see clinging to my skin and choose to deepen, as if pain were a canvas you had the right to paint?
Why am I always the one you return to not to hold, but to unravel? To prod and poke like a wounded animal, watching the twitch, the bleed, the breaking. Do I amuse you in my ruin?
Tell me—does it thrill you? This desecration dressed as indifference?
does watching me unravel make your spine straighter? your smile sharper? You cannot keep pretending your hands weren’t at the helm of every collapse. You chose this each silence sharpened into a weapon, each withdrawal a calculated incision. You eroded me, not gently, but like rot taking root in already fractured bone.
You saw a body, and thought of peeling it back. Of flaying what was left of my tenderness to turn my pain into pulp
just to suck the marrow from it, spit out what didn’t taste like compliance.
You forget your humanity in my presence. You move like a god among rubble, as if my heart was wreckage from the start. I became a thing to be shattered for sport ceramic girl, pretty when broken. You plucked me apart piece by piece until all that remained was dust in the corners and a single, jagged tooth biting down on silence.
You are a compilation of my worst memories dressed in borrowed warmth. A mouth that once said I love you only to hollow out the meaning and wear it like perfume before fucking someone else and pretending I’d be fine.
And still you keep yourself perched on a pedestal of self-preservation, not to be admired, but to remain untouched by the harm you crafted. Distant. Convenient. Above the wreckage of me far away from what you haven’t scavenged yet.