Daemon

Corpse of a spider,

trapped in a book.

Without a second look,

was it crushed between pages.

What could have lived for ages,

was instead crushed between papers.

Now it is long gone,

I realise I was wrong.

Your silence. Your hatred. Your view of me.

I should have let you go —

but you're so alive in my head.

Ever since you've been gone,

it feels like I've lost a limb.

The evil version of me

that lives in your head,

the one you believe I am —

it isn't real.

That isn’t me.

If you could only see.

And I am here,

waiting on the other side.

Hoping —

because that's all I have left.

I’ve gone over that conversation so many times, trying to figure out what I did to deserve the way you treated me. I know I wasn’t perfect—I was hurt, frustrated, and I said things that weren’t kind. But I never expected you to tear me apart just because I needed more from you.

What I said came from a place of wanting you in my life—of missing you, of being tired of feeling like I didn’t matter anymore. It wasn’t pretty, but it wasn’t meant to destroy. You, on the other hand, came at me with words designed to cut deep—words that tried to erase every good part of our friendship and paint me as something I’m not.

You used my vulnerabilities against me. You twisted my trust into ammunition. And you convinced yourself that cruelty was justified because it was easier than looking at the ways you hurt me too.

I carried the blame for both of us for far too long—thinking if I had just been softer, more understanding, maybe you wouldn’t have snapped the way you did. But the truth is, a safe friend doesn’t need you to be perfect in order to treat you with basic respect.

I know I hurt you, and I’m sorry for that. But I didn’t deserve to be dehumanized, mocked, or made to feel like I was never anything but a “toxic” person in your life. I was there for you. I cared—probably more than I should have.

You chose to ignore that. You chose to rewrite me as the villain so you wouldn’t have to acknowledge your own part in our fallout. That’s on you.

I’ve apologized for my mistakes. I’ve owned my hurt. But I refuse to keep carrying the weight of yours.

If you ever decide to face what really happened—with honesty, without cruelty—I’ll be somewhere far from the version of me you tried to reduce me to.

Until then, I’m done letting your silence and your words control the narrative.

I deserved better.

I still do.

This is about you. It always was.

He was gone all too soon.

I was given a starry night once more.

But how haunted I was

with the ghosts that roamed my empty lands.

It was dark.

And a dark black cloud hid the moon.

And so I became fire

until I blackened everything.

And in my misery, I slumbered.

Waking up,

I soon came to realize it was morning, eternal and unyielding.

The moon hasn't come back since.

To that quiet, smoke-filled sky

I begged for forgiveness,

reconciliation.

But the moon remained out of view.

Now

I mourn those blessed nights with the moon,

and yearn for a chance to see him once more.

And if I do,

I'll be the sea that keeps it grounded.

Because tearshed

I blow up a balloon, and hope it doesn't explode in my face.

Though I put my hands in front of my face. To asserten that if it does explode, at least it won't hurt me.

And though this may guarantee my safety, it takes too long to blow one balloon up. Preventing me from blowing my balloon to a proper size.

All the balloons I blow up, are small and just a few.

As keeping my hands up like that takes a massive amount of energy. But at least my face doesn't hurt.

I will just have to bare with a dull and stale room.

But save some—

in case that basket has a hole,

or breaks.