Things haven’t changed since the last time,
only the mask—
you’ve worn it differently,
but the pattern stays the same.
You speak in ways that twist and blur,
words meant to confuse,
to shift the weight away from you
and place it on me.
But your actions tell the truth
your words try to hide—
a life without accountability,
without respect,
built on deflection and pride.
I keep hoping
that the future we’re building
will soften something in you,
will spark a change,
will make you see.
But I’m afraid
your habits run too deep—
exhausting, repeating,
a cycle you refuse to break.
You point outward,
never inward.
Everyone else is to blame,
and you stand untouched
by your own mistakes.
No one has ever been “enough”
to stop the damage,
the slow encroachment of your ways—
and now I find myself caught in it too,
a victim of your games.
I don’t want this for our child—
a home that feels heavy,
where love is conditional
and respect is absent.
I want softness, safety,
a place where they can breathe—
not learn anxiety
the way I did,
watching love feel out of reach.
Because when everything is twisted
to protect your story,
to feed your victim’s narrative,
someone else is always left
holding the weight.
And I’m tired
of being the one
who carries it.