Safety’s a Mindfuck

no monsters, just my own brain chewing its leg off

No one tells you healing feels like shit.

You miss the mess.
The blueprint that told you how to breathe,
when to brace for the hit.
It was bad, sure. But at least it made sense.

Now it’s quiet.
And quiet is a threat I don’t know how to read.

It’s like someone rewired the fire alarm
but they did it wrong because
now it goes off when the stove is cold,
and stays silent when the room is burning.

There was comfort in knowing
when to stay small,
when to vanish behind a smile,
so the silence doesn’t snap.

It’s awful, I know,
wishing to be sicker in the head than I am still.
But it made sense.
Now nothing makes sense.
And everything feels like a threat
because few things are left that do.

Now I ask myself stupid questions
like, is this person being kind
or just not cruel yet?
I wait for the slap
that never comes
and feel crazy for the waiting.

I flinch at softness.
I don't trust calm.
I keep checking the exits
even in rooms full of love.

No one says
you’ll miss the monster you knew.
I hate that I miss it.
Hate that I still pace the apartment
like a dog waiting for a shout.

I don’t know how to be in a world
where I don’t have to brace for a hit.
Where a hand on my shoulder
is just a hand,
not a countdown.

They don't tell you healing breaks you in new places.

At least pain had a rhythm.
Now it's just this strange, soft thing that doesn't hit you,
and somehow that hurts more.

Because my whole nervous system is still wired for war,
but no one's fighting.
Just me, still hiding in a ditch.
Waiting for the next set of footsteps running past.

Just me.
Haunting the battlefield.

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