The Last Act Is Mine

You dripped love like honey, sweet and golden - a gilded snare I didn’t see coming. You adored me loudly, so the world would clap its hands, so I would clap my hands - a fool in your theatre of lies. You were the man they envied. I was the woman you owned. The flat was supposed to be ours - a home, a haven, but the walls closed in like fists. The silence wasn’t peace, it was the space you left when you slipped into other beds. Her perfume clung to you, a ghost I couldn’t exorcise, a knife I kept turning inward. You told me I wasn’t enough. You told me she was the one, the one who got away. And still, you held me, a trophy to dust when you pleased. You fed me scraps of affection, whispers of what I used to be - as if love were a punishment I should be grateful for. Then the baby. The choice. Them, or me. Do you know what it’s like to tear something alive from your soul, to claw your way back from the dark pit of mother and monster? I chose me, but I shattered doing it. For years, I was a grave, empty and aching, my body remembering what it held, my mind cursing what it let go. I screamed into pillows, I begged shadows for peace. Five years, and this is the first I haven’t ached for what I lost. But don’t mistake me - I haven’t forgiven you. I haven’t forgotten. I wish you nothing but darkness, the same suffocating void you built around me. I hope the memory of me crawls up your spine at night, that the faces you see are ones you can’t escape. You turned me to ash, but I rose, smoke-streaked and scarred. And now I am the fire you’ll burn in forever.