You said I was crazy. I said, “You’re welcome.” You wanted me clay and easy to manage — told me real people don’t talk like I do, dream like I do, think like I do. You called my ambition a phase, my drive a another dumb thing. You made me second-guess everything I was building until I didn’t even recognize my own hands. I don’t forgive you. I don’t look back with grace. I don’t owe you a thank-you for surviving what you did to me. I’m not softer now. I’m sharper. I’m not healing. I’m hunting. And still, I stayed. Until the silence got louder than your voice. I cried one time, and then I got strategic. I didn’t blow up. I geared up. I turned pain into verses and carved your insults into black ink. I don’t forgive you. I don’t look back with grace. I don’t owe you a thank-you for surviving what you did to me. I’m not softer now. I’m sharper. I’m not healing. I’m hunting. I cut people before they get too close. I laugh at love songs. I read between every line. You made me cold. And I stayed that way. Not because I want to. Because I have to. You didn’t teach me a lesson. You left me with a weapon. And every time I win— I hope it stings. I’m not healing. I’m hunting. I don’t forgive you. I don’t look back with grace. I don’t owe you a thank-you for surviving what you did to me. I’m not softer now. I’m sharper. I’m not healing. I’m hunting. hunting. hunting.
