Somewhere along the way,
I stopped running.
Not because I healed,
but because I was tired of bleeding
from a chase I never won.
I built my life out of refusal.
Out of I will never be this.
Out of I am not her.
But denial is fragile,
and time is merciless.
Now I hear her in my anger.
I see her in the way my words
know exactly where to cut.
I feel her in my silence,
heavy and punishing.
And the worst part
is how natural it feels.
Like my body remembers a language
my mind tried to forget.
I break people
before they get the chance to leave.
I twist truth
until I can breathe again.
I hurt,
not because I want to,
but because something inside me
doesn’t know any other way to survive.
And afterward,
guilt doesn’t save me.
It only proves I’m still aware
of what I’ve become.
I carry her damage
like a second spine.
Holding me upright.
Breaking me slowly.
No matter how different I try to be,
no matter how carefully I construct myself,
I end up standing
inside her shadow.
Becoming what you feared
isn’t loud.
It’s quiet.
It’s slow.
It’s realizing one day
that the monster you escaped
built a home in your chest.
And there is no clean ending.
No redemption arc.
Just the endless labor
of resisting yourself
and losing
often enough
to wonder
if escape was ever possible.