He lies
like breathing—
in,
out,
easy.

You catch him,
and he laughs in your face.
“You’re so emotional.”
“You twist everything.”
He looks you dead in the eye
and rewrites the whole night
like your memory’s just bad TV.

He never touched the fire—
he just handed you the match,
watched you light yourself up,
then called you crazy
for burning.

He tosses money
like a grenade—
you’re too busy ducking
to ask why you’re always the one bleeding.

Diamonds for silence.
A new purse
for the apology
he never said.

You say “This hurts.”
He says “You’re dramatic.”
You say “You lied.”
He says “You misunderstood.”

And somehow,
you end up
saying sorry.

Every time he fucks up,
you get something pretty.
New things.
Dead eyes.
A voice that cracks
only when no one’s around.

He makes you doubt
what you know.
What you saw.
What you felt.

And when you cry?
He wipes your tears
with the same hands
he used to twist the knife.

He doesn’t love you.
He loves control.
He loves the way
you keep coming back,
as if he’s gravity
and you’re just debris.

And maybe you are.

Because by now,
you don’t even know
what part of you is real
and what part
he bought.