Did I develop these pictures just to burn it
Write these letters just to shred it
Sang songs during sobriety
Danced on the dancefloor, feeling high
"It was us against the world," what a pretty little liar you are
You left me all alone. In the streets sleeping.

That night, when you drove me home, was it out of gesture?
Or was it the last time you went and wanted to see me?

Because when I wore that red satin dress, you dumped me.
But I strived harder, moved to Harvard to study Law but not to follow you
No wonder a girl like me from sorority
Would become a lawyer someday.

why does your blood boil out of haste, my love
Are you mad at me? Are you tired of me?
Or do you even love me?
You did not even bother to look at me.
You can stray me away from you
Brainwash me until I forget how it feels
To bleed while being numb
Just to feel pain
Just to taste the pain of blood
Why have you forsaken me?
Did you regret meeting me?
Make haste, I plead
But never heard.

Instead of leaving the demons alone,
you chatted with them,
befriended them,
and even adopted their ways.

Have you been possessed by seven demons?
how many demons are there in a bible?
many names to call but all of it are associated to you
Sometimes, it’s hard for me to distinguish it anymore,
because you and the devil are alike now.

You speak in echoes now,
but none of them are your own—
every tale you twist
turns truth into tombstone.

Tongues once trusted
became serpents in silk,
slithering through rumors,
swallowing guilt.

Your breath smells of borrowed vengeance,
a perfume of slander
that stains the innocent.

Even silence you defile,
dressing it in suspicion and exile.

I watched your smile warp into smirk,
while your words sank deeper than dirt—
turning allies into antagonists,
as Leviathan danced behind your lips.

You wove falsehood like it was scripture,
casting shadows on every clear picture.

Is this your communion now?
To feast on stories,
to leave souls hollow?

They say:

“Great minds discuss ideas,
average minds discuss events,
small minds discuss people.”

And here you are,
building your kingdom from whispers,
sipping tea brewed in betrayal,
feasting on the names you tarnish.

Tell me—
when did you become so hungry
for power in the dark,
that you let your tongue
become your dagger?

When did you let your demons
call your house their home,
until you could not tell
where you end
and they begin?

Now,
the Leviathan and you are one.

You possess its characteristics:
twisting truth,
breaking covenants,
severing your connection with God.

Your neck stiffens in defiance,
your heart grows hard and cold,
your ears close to the Holy Spirit’s whisper.

You carry its pride,
its arrogance,
its haughty smirk.

You speak in borrowed venom,
your silence becoming suspicion,
your words, a weapon sharpened by lies.

You let the whispering liar
take residence behind your lips,
feeding your ego,
breeding bitterness in your bones.

You think you are in control—
but the Leviathan is dancing you,
twisting your spine,
wrapping you in its coils.

And the worst is yet to come.

Because once pride has swallowed you whole,
once bitterness has choked out mercy,
once you have scorched every bridge you stood upon—

You will realize too late
that the Leviathan does not share its throne.
It devours it.

And you,
in your hunger for control,
will be left with nothing
but ashes in your mouth
and silence from the heavens.

I didn’t hear you argue—  
not loudly.  
But I heard the silence afterward.  
It throbbed louder than a scream.  

The scent of your sadness clung to the curtains.  
I knew something was wrong when you stopped singing while folding my clothes.  

You hugged me tighter those nights.  
Like I was your anchor,  
or maybe just your only witness  
that you were still trying.  

Dad came home with smiles that didn’t reach his eyes.  
He called me “buddy,”  
but his mind wandered—  
maybe to her, maybe to escape.  
His shoes were polished,  
but they brought in dirt I couldn’t see.  

I saw you crying once.  
You said it was the onions,  
but we didn’t have any in the house.  

I used to draw our family with three smiles.  
Now I forget what color to paint Dad’s shirt.  
Blue feels too warm.  
Grey feels more honest.

I just want you both to talk to me.  
Not like a child—  
but like the part of you that’s still holding on to what we were.

They say children forget.  
But I remember in shadows.  
Not the slam of doors—  
but how the light felt wrong after they closed.

You both thought I wasn’t listening.  
I was.  
I always do.  
Between spoonfuls of rice,  
between cartoons and bedtime prayers—  
I pieced together the truth  
like a broken puzzle with jagged edges.

Mom, you stopped humming while cooking.  
Dad, you started wearing cologne that didn’t smell like you.  
Small things. Big meanings.

I saw you, Mom—  
with eyes that tried not to cry when I handed you my drawing.  
Us three stick figures, holding hands.  
You said it was beautiful,  
but your voice broke somewhere between “beau” and “tiful.”  
And I wondered…  
if drawings can lie.

Dad, I missed you even when you were there.  
You sat on the couch but leaned toward silence.  
You smiled, but your phone seemed happier than your face.  
I saw the lipstick on your collar.  
I’m young, but not blind.  
And when you hugged me, it felt borrowed.

I hear things in whispers.  
Things like “mistress” and “betrayal” and “I should’ve left sooner.”  
Words I don’t know how to spell,  
but somehow know how they hurt.

I started keeping secrets, too.  
Like how I stopped writing your name in my homework, Dad.  
Like how I pretend to sleep  
when I hear Mom crying in the kitchen.

You both gave me life.  
But now I feel like I’m holding your regrets in my backpack.  
Heavy. Quiet. Hidden.

Sometimes I wonder…  
If I’m enough to fix it.  
If love was ever enough to keep us safe.

I don’t know what healing looks like.  
But I know what hurting sounds like.  
It’s in our house now.  
And I tuck it in at night.