She’s held it all inside.
Which means she’s perfect.
Which means she’s ready.
The first time we met, she flinched when I said her name.
The next time we speak, she’ll whisper it back to me like a sin she doesn’t want forgiven.
But not yet.
Not until I know she understands what I’m offering her isn’t destruction — it’s evolution.
Not until she knows that this isn’t about revenge, or power, or sex.
It’s about possession.
Not in body.
In thought.
In identity.
In ownership of the version of her no one else has seen.
She closes the box slowly.
Like she’s afraid of what it means now that it’s open.
Like she’s afraid something inside her woke up, and she doesn’t know how to put it back to sleep.
Good.
Let her fear it.
Let her live in it.
Because I don’t need to take her by force.
She’ll walk to me eventually.
And when she does?
I won’t have to lock the door behind her.
She’ll close it herself.
Tahlia
Idon’t put the mirror back in the box.
The lid remains open beside me, a black mouth that already knows it won’t be fed closure.
I don’t smash it. Don’t scream. Don’t burn the whole apartment down the way part of me wants to.
That part paces somewhere behind my ribs, clawing, furious, incandescent, but it doesn’t take the wheel.
I just… sit with it.
