they said, "it's your fault."
and nodded like a judge,
but forgot their own sentence.
the first had soft hands
and a wandering grip.
the second had sharp words
and a memory that always bent in her favor.
neither raised a fist.
yet she flinched.
she stood in the courtroom of their kindness,
while they played judge,
jury,
and the benevolent executioner —
all while smiling like saints.
tender tyrants, both.
one split open her skin.
the other shredded her mind.
and still—
she brought flowers to the trial.
said "thank you" for the trauma.
what a well-behaved victim.
what a polite little scapegoat.
they liked her better
when she obliged in their favour.
they'd never admit, they don't even realise it.
so she became a fucking symphony of sorries,
each note begging forgiveness
for simply existing wrong.
how romantic—
gaslight as affection.
guilt as the price.
and silence served as survival.
they weaponized her confusion
like artists.
rewrote the whole damn script,
then asked why she kept
remembering it wrong.
what a silly girl.
always so "sensitive."
so "tiring."
so "dramatic."
but never neuro-divergent.
one taught her
that no doesn't always mean no.
the other taught her
that maybe it means yes
even if she said it loud enough.
because that's quite fitting,
in their head.
iconic duo.
one left bruises on her body.
the other left scars on her sanity.
and both walked away
with stories that painted her as unstable
and the reputation where they are perfect.
meanwhile, she's still finding
blood under her tongue
from biting it too fucking much.
but it's fine.
she was the villain, remember?
the crazy one.
the liar.
the cracked mirror that couldn't
reflect their perfection.
they called it "love."
she calls it
emotional manslaughter.
but sure—
chalk it up to "unintentional actions".
if the shoe fits—
go ahead, trip over it.
and if it doesn't,
why the hell is it
pinching your pride?
anyway,
she hopes they sleep well.
must be nice
to lay your head down on delusion
and still sleep like the only victim.
besides,
it was her fault, wasn't it?
it always fucking is.
BẠN ĐANG ĐỌC
My Fault
Phi Hư CấuKrystal. Not a name. A mask. A code for a version of myself that doesn't exist. A way to tell the story without choking on it. Behind the name lies a truth too tangled to say aloud. A truth I whisper, every night, in the dark: It's my fault. It's my...
