If You Want to Know (Know That You Can’t Hurt Me)

If you want to know—
know this.

You are not a wound, not even a scar,
not a shadow that lingers, not a whisper in the dark.
You are the static I tune out, the buzzing of a fly,
the lingering scent of something rotting,
desperate to be noticed before it withers into dust.

You think you are history,
some grand architect of my ruin,
but you are nothing more than a footnote,
a barely legible scrawl at the bottom of a page
that no one reads.

Your words? They are wind against steel,
soft, inconsequential, fleeting.
Your rage? It is a match in a hurricane,
snuffed out before it ever had the chance to burn.

You shriek into the void,
spitting venom as if it will curdle my blood,
twisting fictions into gospel,
as if saying it enough times will make it real.
But you do not shape truth.
You do not rewrite my story with your forked tongue.

I have seen the way you move,
a pathetic spectre haunting spaces you do not belong,
clawing at walls that do not hold your name,
a ghost unwelcome, unremembered,
forgotten before the echo of your voice has even faded.

You did nothing.
You are nothing.
You will remain nothing.

And you can choke on that.

You are an uninvited guest in a world that does not want you.
A trespasser in lives that flourish despite your presence.
A bitter aftertaste in mouths that have long since washed you away.

And if you want to know—
know this.

I do not care about you.
Not you, not yours, not the twisted legacy you imagine for yourself.
You exist in the gutters of my past,
kicking up filth, hoping I’ll step in it,
but I walk clean, untethered, unstoppable.

So scream your lies,
spin your stories,
gnash your teeth against a world that does not bend for you.

You will never reach me.
And God, I know that kills you.