hun! now you ask, “What’s wrong, my friend?”
After carving your name where my nerves end.
Ten days of silence, now you knock?
With feigned concern and eyes like chalk?
You know damn well where the damage lies—
It’s still dripping between my replies.
You tore me slow, like art, like sport,
Now play the saint in your little report.
“Tell me, what hurts?” — oh, what a show,
As if your hands weren’t the first to throw.
As if my laugh, deranged and wild,
Aren’t screams you stitched in your exile.
Go sip your guilt with sugar and lies,
But don’t you dare pretend surprise.
You weren’t blind—you just enjoyed the view,
Of me falling apart quietly, right in front of you.
