Blood and Oil

You let those words fall from your mouth—

not once,

not thrice,

but over and over,

like a broken hymn you rehearsed

until it no longer carried weight.

No guilt laced your tongue,

no hesitation carved your silence.

The syllables dripped

like oil on fire,

dark and shining,

burning everything they touched.

I stood there,

watching the wreckage

collect at my feet—

your words,

your venom,

your rehearsed betrayal.

They say words fade,

but yours lingered,

etching themselves

into the thin walls of my chest.

Every echo was a wound,

every wound a reminder

that love can sound like cruelty

when spoken too often without care.

And still—

I gathered them,

the shards of your voice,

the stains of your silence.

I carried them in my hands

as if they were fragile glass,

even while they cut me open.

Because sometimes

we mistake repetition for truth,

and cruelty for clarity.

Sometimes we stand too long

in the fire of another’s voice

and forget

that we are allowed to leave

before the ashes claim us.