The Debt Always Comes Due

Always the victim, never the cause,
twisting the past into thorns in your crown,
spitting out names like they branded you first,
but no, you lit the match.
 
Nothing was real—just a game, just a spark,
a flicker in winter, a flame in my hands,
burning because you willed it to,
then blaming the fire for touching your skin.
 
Never was love, never was truth,
just a hollow echo you painted in gold,
a script rehearsed, a play well-staged,
but the audience left, and the curtains fell.
 
Every excuse, every shattered mirror,
you threw them like knives at the ones who cared,
but glass cuts back, and now you bleed,
alone in the wreckage you swore wasn’t yours.
 
Karma doesn’t knock—it breaks the door,
it creeps in quiet, it settles the debt,
no need for vengeance, no need for rage,
I’m healed, I’m whole, and you’re still lost.
 
And now? A shadow chasing its own ghost,
running, running, never home,
but the past always knows where you sleep.