if you ask me about hope, i’ll tell you about the fucking days it shows up uninvited, dressed up in pretty lies, whispering empty promises like i haven’t learned better. it stands there, smug and daring me to believe again, but i don’t open the goddamn door. i know exactly what hope does-how it wraps itself around you like silk and then chokes you when it sours, how it lingers and turns cruel, like a guest that doesn’t know when to fucking leave.
there are ghosts i can’t exorcise, wounds i don’t know how to close, and on days when hope feels more like a curse than a gift, i let the storm in. i become every ugly, buried hurt, every rage i’ve swallowed, and i tear through the quiet that’s tried to shut me up. i’m fucking done letting lies put me to sleep when i’ve woken up too many times with betrayal burning my throat.
if he ever dares to tell me i’m ruined, like my worth’s been touched and tainted, i’ll remind him of his own hands. i’ll ask him how many souls he’s shattered, how many hearts he’s broken so badly they couldn’t see their own worth anymore. because i know what it looks like when men destroy, when they leave behind pieces of what could have been beautiful, and i refuse to be another goddamn casualty.
i’m done falling for empty bullshit. no more slapping gold over hopeless. i’ll rebuild from the wreckage with my own hands, hands that know the fucking truth.
brainsick
