You Have No Right

You have no right—

those are the words you throw at me,

as though they are scripture.

yet you reach for my body

as if it belongs to you.

You swear you don’t lie,

but your words and actions

are crooked mirrors,

fracturing the truth I thought we shared.

If you’re not with me,

you’re slipping into her shadow.

She’s “just a friend,” you say.

But tell me—

why does her body

escape your restless hands?

Is it her distance you respect?

Or is she the altar you preserve?

Perhaps she’s been touched—

but not ravaged,

not consumed like I have been.

I have no right over you,

yet you demand the right to me,

to every inch of me,

to fulfill your hunger

without feeding mine.

I want to believe you are blind,

that you don’t see the weight of what you do.

Because if you do—

if this is deliberate,

may the seeds you’ve sown

grow wild and relentless,

bearing fruit you can never swallow.

Love is not “I can’t pretend.”

It is not hollow words or empty gestures.

Love is the art of feeling,

of wearing another’s scars,

walking their roads,

learning the ache in their steps.

Scarcity is a gift—

value blossoms in its absence.

But I have become abundant in your eyes,

common and cheap,

like a trinket you toss aside.

So, I ask again:

if I have no right over you,

then why do you remain here?

Why haunt my space,

my body, my soul,

if your heart

has already left the room?

Life is a choice.

If someone else makes you whole,

then take your leave,

pour your focus into them,

and reap the harvest you desire. 

Could I be wrong?

Could this glass I’m looking through

be marred, cracked, stained by my own pain?

Yes, perhaps.

But I can only see

what you have placed before me.

No one writes poems of pain

unless they have lived them.

One day,

you’ll hold this memory like a magnifying glass,

tracing every line you once ignored.

And maybe then,

you’ll finally understand.