Then made me out to be the Bitchy-witch.
The whispers travel through the halls like smoke,
A curated rumor, a carefully crafted lie,
They gather in corners to dissect the way we spoke,
Tracing a phantom lust within the eye.
They label kindness as a hidden snare,
And call our simple warmth a calculated game,
As if the natural breath of light and air
Must be a hollow vessel for the shame.
\"Inappropriate,\" they murmur to the walls,
Suggesting I have cast a velvet net,
That every word of mine that softly falls
Is just a lure to make your heart forget.
It’s strange how they define the space between,
Translating laughter into something base,
Painting the candid moments we have seen
With stains of hunger I cannot erase.
I never sought to bend your soul my way,
Nor trade in shadows, secrets, or disguise;
It’s tragic how they steal the light of day
To paint a scandal where the spirit lies.
They view the honest tether of a friend
As something tethered to a dark intent,
Too blind to see the bridge that doesn\'t bend,
Or fathom peace that isn\'t heaven-sent.
So let them weave their tales of false design,
And guard their narrow borders of the heart;
They’ll never reach the truth that is as mine—
That we were whole, before they tore us apart.