How Convenient
How convenient — that I’m now the villain in your story,
when it was your hands that shattered me
beyond what glue or grace could ever fix.
How convenient, that you wear the victim’s mask so well,
your rehearsed tears falling right on cue, so convincing they almost convince me too.
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You carry so many faces I’ve lost track of who I’m speaking to.
But the world claps for you, adores your charm,
and I am left with the echo of your cruelty.
The world is cruel — but you?
You’re the kind of cruel that dresses in softness,
the kind that holds your hand while quietly setting fire to your soul.
And what’s most pathetic,
most painful, is that even knowing your love
is a slow, silent undoing, I’d still choose it.
I’d still choose you.
Because somehow, being broken in your arms
feels safer than walking away whole.
Ours is a story written in ruin toxic, tangled, yet tethered by a bond
that should have never been born.
And still, here I am, waiting for a love that only knows how to bruise.
