The Would I Reopened

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.