You Told Me Who You Were

You told me who you were.
God, you told me.
With every slight
dripping in sugar,
every wound disguised
as wisdom.
You told me
with silence,
with blame,
with eyes that gleamed
when I flinched.

And I—
what did I do?

I lit candles at the altar
of your better nature.
I called it love
when you sank your teeth in.
I made excuses
while you made devastation.

You told me.
You showed me.
And still, I crawled back
like forgiveness
could be a bridge
over a pit
you were still digging.

I called the blood
an accident.
I called the ache
a lesson.
I called your cruelty
complicated
because calling it what it was
meant I’d have to leave.

And I wasn’t ready.
Not then.

I made space for you—
space you flooded
with venom and games
and grins that curled
like smoke from something burning.
You delighted in it.
Fed on it.
Like a shark in a frenzy
if sharks could gloat.
If sharks could smirk.
If sharks could whisper
it’s your fault
while still chewing the bone.

But even sharks
don’t lie
about what they are.

You did.

And I did the rest.

I covered your tracks.
I blurred the mirror.
I wrapped the wreckage
in ribbon
and called it a bond.

What a fool I was.
How many red flags
did I repaint in soft pastels?
How many times
did I tell myself
it was the last time?

Every time I handed you
a new chance—
you used it
like a blade.

And now,
there’s no mystery left.
No veil.
No excuse.

You told me who you were.
Over and over.
And I—
I finally
believe you.

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