The REAL psycho

 The phone sits heavy in the palm of my hand, 

A digital desert of shifting sand. 

I’m tired of searching for what I already know, 

Tired of watching the seeds of my own sorrow grow. 

I look in the mirror at the lines on my face, 

At a woman who’s vanished without a trace. 

I was built from the chaos of my own tears, 

And I’ve carried that weight for too many years.

He calls me psycho to cover his tracks, 

While I break my spirit on his many cracks. 

But the real madness isn’t the screaming or fear, 

It’s staying right here, 

year after year. 

It’s teaching my children that love is a chain, 

That a heart is a vessel for holding the pain. 

I see the new girl, 

I see his new life, 

And for the first time, 

I don’t want to cry.

I put down his phone. 

I turn off the light. 

I’m not chasing a ghost through the halls tonight. 

I’m packing a bag with the things I can save— My pride and my children, 

the life that I crave. 

The door isn’t locked, 

it never was true; 

The only thing holding me back wasn’t you. 

It was the fear that I’m broken, 

but now I can see, 

That leaving the psycho is how I'll be free.