Shame.

He visited today. In a refreshingly different, but still awful way than before. Different in that I recognized him, and awful in that recognizable, or not, he still exudes awfulness—like a whispering ghost, criticizing my every move. I saw his face—I felt his disdain. He sunk into my cracks of anger and asked me to hate. He gaped at my dancing strands of hope and told them to stop. He mocked my sadness. Marked my weakness. Masked my gladness. And raped my good. He marveled at my tears saying, Don’t stop. There are always more reasons to flow. He rocked my exhuastion saying, I’m glad to find you. I’m glad to remind you of your name. He grabbed me by the hand, wanting to lead me back into his dark, back into his dance. But I pulled away and said, “No. I see you today and your story is not worth my time.”