Losing Your Faith in People
I trusted hands that looked like mine, skin mapped with the same scars–
for years I let their laughter build scaffolds in my head,
thinking maybe this was how you heal, how you build a shelter out of broken glass,
blind to the way they pocketed shards, how every “I’ll always be here”
was a stone they stacked behind their backs, for throwing when the sun went down.
They smiled like thieves at the feast, teeth polished with borrowed secrets,
I wore my insides on the outside, nerves raw, wide open, hoping
someone would call it bravery instead of stupidity.
Shared my last cigarette with a girl who promised she’d never run,
watched her vanish with the match still burning in her palm.
It starts slow, the rot in the beams,
a missed call, a lie dressed up for the weekend,
excuses that sound like lullabies until you wake up,
and realize lullabies are just lies set to music.
I carried their pain like it was my rent,
paying in patience, trading my own hunger for a seat at their table,
learning late that some tables are just altars for sacrifice,
and the knife you fear is already pressed beneath your ribs.
I’ve seen apologies used as currency,
the richest ones are always the best liars–
forgiveness hanging off their lips like counterfeit gold,
melting under the faintest heat.
I stopped writing names on the inside of my wrist,
stopped counting the times I tried to stitch trust into my own shadow.
Every echo a warning: they’re coming, they’re coming,
but it’s just my own voice, hoarse and wild,
warning me about the ones who already walked away.
Is this cynicism or self-preservation?
Does it matter when you can taste betrayal in the water,
when you see the hands behind the curtain,
pulling every string, cutting every cord?
I remember when I believed love was something you could plant–
something that would grow if you just bled enough,
if you just stayed through the storms.
But all I got were roots that pulled me under,
bloomed into hunger that would never be fed.
We become our own monsters,
sharpened by the things we let go,
by the doors we locked too late,
by the comfort we gave to those who only wanted to feed.
Now when I speak, I measure every word,
every secret another nail in the coffin of my old self.
I trust like a wounded animal, circling the fire,
knowing there’s nothing in the dark but more of the same–
a thousand hands reaching for your throat,
a thousand lips whispering “I love you,”
and every one just waiting for you to blink.
Tonight, I light my last candle,
burn down the names,
let the smoke curl up with the ghosts–
and I walk away empty,
but at least I know this emptiness is honest.