I let you in far too easily,
as though the locks I’d built
were only decoration,
waiting for the sound of your voice
to turn every key.
I knew better.
Every goodbye before this
left another scar to memorize,
yet I still convinced myself
that maybe this time
your hands had come to heal
instead of harm.
So I stayed.
Anyone else would’ve walked away
the moment hope began
to look like another trap.
But I mistook familiarity
for safety,
and silence
for peace.
I gave you pieces of myself
I had only just stitched back together,
thread by trembling thread,
believing they were finally whole.
Instead,
I wrapped my own fingers
around the knife,
pulled it free from the old wound,
waited for the bleeding to stop…
only to press the blade
back into the same place.
Not because you forced my hand.
Because somewhere inside me
I still believed
that loving you enough
might dull the edge.
It never did.
Now I carry another wound
stacked atop the last,
learning that the deepest pain
was never letting you leave,
it was letting you return
before I had learned
how to keep the door closed.