Words That Cut

The chair creaks under the weight of truth,

a single phrase explodes, "Maybe you’re not the problem,"—

anger curls tight in my throat, a bitter pang,

as if a truth could shape-shift, twist like metal,

a weapon forged in the fires of doubt.

I grip the armrests, knuckles white,

a suggestion that flips my world upside down,

I am not a villain in my own script,

but it flickers, vulnerable, a play without cues,

words sinking in, raw, like salt on fresh wounds.