Unstoppable

I knew it the moment her knuckles went white

gripping the counter like it might leave,

like her hands could hold on to something

that was already gone, and I kept talking,

kept pushing the knife in because once

you start bleeding the person, you can't

just bandage it and pretend. She looked away.

I said it again, meaner this time, testing

if cruelty gets easier the second time

or if it just sits heavier, and it sat heavier,

much heavier, the kind of weight

that doesn't lift when you leave the room.

She was still gripping the counter.

I was still talking.

This is what it means to be unstoppable—

to feel the break happening and keep

moving anyway, to watch the flinch

and decide the momentum matters more

than the damage, to know you're the villain

in this scene and keep your foot

on the accelerator, knowing full well

where the cliff is and how far down it goes.