She leans in with her sharp eyes,
mouth a well-oiled machine of truths.
Each word a blade, slicing tender,
but not to wound—no, to air out.
“You’re hiding again,” she says,
voice taut like a pulled string.
I feel it snap in my chest—
a dull ache I’ve been feeding.
Her honesty hangs between us,
heavy as unwashed dishes,
as bare as a rotting orange
left too long on the kitchen counter.
I want to tell her she’s wrong.
But the bones of me groan—
she’s carving around the rot,
scraping at what I buried deep.
“I didn’t come for surgery,” I think,
but hell, maybe I did.
Her words sting like salt poured,
like truth that’s been waiting too long.
She doesn’t blink, doesn’t waver.
I swear she can see my soul sagging,
but somehow still keeps it upright.
We sit in the quiet, raw and alive.