I’m Not Your Bandage

I’m Not Your Bandage I’m not your bandage, not the trembling hands sewing shut the wounds you carved into yourself. I won’t stitch together scars I never had a hand in making. Because when I was bleeding, cracked open and begging for breath, you didn’t reach for me— you reached for the trigger. And for a split second, while my knees buckled and the world tilted red, you stood over me with a smirk sharp enough to cut deeper than the bullet ever could. Your eyes were twin blades— cold, gleaming, merciless— watching me fall as if my breaking was a show you paid to see. So don’t come to me now with trembling apologies, don’t whisper that you’ve changed and expect me to heal your sins. I’m not your remedy, not your redemption, not the salve for the damage you delivered with steady hands. I survived you once. I don’t owe you the grace of surviving you again.