Broken

For years
I breathed through borrowed air,
a weight on my chest
that never lifted—
only learned my rhythm.

Pressing, pressing, pressing,
until silence felt kinder than truth,
until I swallowed my own voice
just to keep the peace you threatened to break.

You loved me in ultimatums,
in guilt wrapped like a gift,
in “if you cared” and “you’re the reason,”
twisting my heart into something that begged to be forgiven.

You made me doubt what I could see,
rewrote moments while I was still in them,
taught me to question reality
until your lies felt steadier than my own mind.

And every crack you carved into me—
every fear, every second-guessing thought—
you handed back and called mine.
Said I was the one with trust issues
like you hadn’t built them with your own hands.

Still—
I left.

I tore myself from your gravity,
unlearned the orbit of your pull,
but freedom came back hollow—
a sky too wide to hold.

No ground,
no name,
just the echo of who I was
before you bent me into silence.

Now I drift
through the ruins of my own body,
each breath catching
on the memory of your hands—
phantom pressure at my ribs,
tightening in places
no one can touch.

And I don’t know
if this is healing—

or just the final part of me, broken at last