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I held you in my hand, and something in me gave way—I became you.

Not gently. Not by choice.

A mirror cracked open, breathing out the weight of years—terrain worn down by yesterday, rot buried beneath the promise of tomorrow. I searched for you like something lost, but you were never lost. You were waiting.

And when I became you, you dragged something out of me I had buried deep—the harm in my voice, the quiet violence in my tone. The way I left marks on people and called it nothing.

They carry it now.

What was mine lives in them—uninvited, unreturned. A residue of me. My life, split and scattered, moving through other bodies. Not sacred. Not redeemed. Just carried.

You don’t get to take that back.

I told myself I was strong. I told myself I was right. But strength collapsed into something smaller, something harder to look at. Humility didn’t save me—it stripped me. Left me standing where there’s no defense, no distance, no excuse.

What I called evil doesn’t disappear. It just stops needing a name.

And now I exist in that place—where nothing answers back, where there is no witness to absolve me, no destination to justify the path.

No “me.” No “you.”

Just what remains.