You’re not Prince Charming,
just another man with a borrowed crown,
shining promises forged in counterfeit.

It’s like you’ve cut me open,
but I’m not bleeding for you.
No knight with a needle in hand,
no hero with steady fingers.
You slap bandaids on wounds that scream for stitches,
pretend they’ll hold as I fray.

I won’t fall for the tilt of your grin,
the way your words wear the scent of a savior.
I know the twist behind your tongue,
the hollow promises echoing louder
than the silence you leave behind.

I am not yours and you are not mine,
so let me bloom in peace.

I am not your soft landing,
not the friend who sews your chaos together.
I won’t press myself to your broken edges,
bleeding until I too, am undone.

Do not mistake me for fragile glass.
I am the shard that cuts clean,
the wound that won’t close
for hands too careless to hold me right.