They said,  
“time heals everything.”  
But I bled out in the waiting.

So I opened the promise like a body—  
scalpel truth,  
steady hands,  
no anesthesia.

What I found inside was worse  
than emptiness.  
It was intention.  
A fabrication shaped like comfort,  
wrapped in silence  
so we’d never call it cruelty.

This lie was passed down—  
ritualistic,  
well-meaning,  
loaded with poison  
sweet enough to swallow.

I kept it in my chest for years.  
Let it nest between lungs  
as if belief was supposed to bruise.

Now I extract it  
line by trembling line.

Even hope can rot  
if left unsaid too long.