He tells people I’m nothing—
loud enough that it circles back,
like poison in a glass
he thinks I’ll drink.

he says I’m fake,
a flirt,
attention-starved—
but he watches every move
like I’m the main event.
posts about me without saying my name,
then stares across the room,
waiting to see if I flinch.

he gets close.
too close.
brushing past me like it’s accidental,
like the heat between us is just physics
and not something he’s been feeding.

he rolls his eyes at my laugh
but leans in to hear it better.
he mocks my clothes,
then finds excuses to stand behind me,
talking too low,
his breath hitting the back of my neck.

he wants me rattled.
off balance.
he wants to know I’m thinking about him
even when he’s cruel.
especially when he’s cruel.

he walks past me
like I’m invisible—
until no one’s around,
and then it’s
I looked good yesterday.
like a bruise with a compliment taped on top.

he keeps his hands clean
but sets the fire,
watching from a safe distance
while I try to make sense
of wanting to punch him
and kiss him
at the same time.

he hates me,
but not enough to let go.
he wants me close—
just close enough to ruin.

and I hate that part of me
still wants to know
what it would feel like
if he ever touched me
without turning it into a weapon.