The Hands That Feed And Fetter


It began so quietly,
I almost mistook it for coincidence.
Familiar echoes.
Recurring shapes.
The unbearable comfort of “again.”

​Then came the slow realization
of something learning me too well.
A weight in the air;
a silence that no longer felt empty,
only occupied.

​I should have left earlier—
before the void began wearing my outline,
before “alone”
started feeling observed.

​So I tried to remove it carefully,
like undoing something
that had already grown beneath the skin.
I erased the traces,
swallowed the names,
locked every entrance I could find.

​Still, some nights,
the dark shifts around me strangely.
Not a touch.
Not a sound.
Just the feeling that something
remembers me, even now.

​And the cruelest part—
if I remove the last thing that still answers,
I can no longer tell
whether I am finally leaving it behind,
…or becoming the space it left behind instead.

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