a woman of no importance

How does one begin?
Do I write the truth that might set me free,
or am I forever chained to it?
Will the ghosts that dwell in my mind
cease their ceaseless whispers,
or must I summon the courage
to expel them, knowing the one I trusted
haunted me all along,
jealous of my life, my being,
relentless in his attacks,
sharpening envy and deceit into a weapon
aimed to destroy me?

And if I do—
will I remain the same?
Who am I without the pain,
without the mask I wore to survive him?
Would I recognize my own reflection,
or see only the scar he carved into me
with envy, lies, and whispers of “crazy,”
a curse delivered after I extended my hand,
after I helped him when he asked?

Perhaps these demons are simpler than I feared.
Did I create them—or did he gift them to me?
No matter. I will vanquish them,
though he wielded jealousy as a weapon,
manipulation as armor,
and deceit as ammunition.
He cursed me, though I helped him,
tried to twist my truth,
to fracture my life,
to claim power over what was never his.

For years, he tried to drag me into shadow,
to fracture my mind, to claim what was never his.
When I resisted,
he called me mad.
When I survived,
he called me fragile.
He saw me, yet refused to see me.
His envy, his lies, his manipulation—
all became the cage I learned to inhabit.

I have tried to make him see,
yet all he offered was a fractured mirror.
I withdraw now,
from his gaze, from his judgment,
from the house of illusions he built around himself.

I am done carrying his hatred,
done filling the void he could not face.
I release myself from his shadow,
from his whispers, from his lies,
from the terror he tried to claim as mine.
He called me “crazy,”
yet it was his envy, his manipulation, his curse
that carved madness into my bones,
his rage that became my cage.

I step away now.
I am no longer his reflection,
his project, his shadow.
I am myself—
and I will not be haunted by his wounds.