I can’t name this.

You were not love. You were fire.

You broke in like a scar — no warning. No apology.

The heat burned like bones steeped in tea.

You held my wrist like you’d already mapped it,

as if my pulse was there and you needed proof.

The kiss was not a kiss. It was an invasion.

You touched me like you were demanding answers,

searching my body for the place where I finally said yes.

We sat too close, like stitches on a wound.

Every word was a live wire — you didn’t just speak,

you breathed your will into me like method of doubt,

cutting away everything that wasn’t you.

Your gaze bent the air. You were closer than nerves.

You traced my outline — not from outside, but from within,

embedding yourself in me like malware. Like pressure.

You were never mine. You became me. You became my only internal witness.

Rejoice. You finished the job.

In the back alleys of my throat — gridlock and grinding.

You didn’t enter as a woman — you entered as a decree.

Let memory shred. Let the nerves bleed.

You’re hammered into me like a branding iron.

I thought it was passion. I screamed about forever.

While you were quietly sewing my eyelids shut

so I wouldn’t see you building your control.

This is an invasion I hide behind story filters.

A friend looks at my face.

Says quietly: *your eyes look like a switched-off screen.*

I laugh. Change the subject. Order another coffee.

Mom calls at eight in the morning.

*How are you? Are you eating? Are you even alive in there?*

I’m fine, Mom. Everything’s fine. Working hard.

The courier at the door — *sign here* —

I sign and smile

like a person who has a tomorrow.

The doctor says: *you don’t look well.*

Blood pressure, I say. Not sleeping. Work stress.

And under the table — my phone.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

So no one sees where I actually live.

I see you. You’re sitting in the corner of the couch, face buried in your phone.

Not the news.

*Or news. Someone’s.*

*You’re smiling at the screen.*

*I know that smile — it used to be mine.*

*I ask who.*

*You say — nobody.*

*Nobody gets smiled at like that.*

*I closed my eyes. Pretended I hadn’t seen.*

*Because if I ask — I’ll have to hear the answer.*

*And I’m not ready yet to know what I already know.*

You’re watching tutorials on hypnosis and neurolinguistics.

You studied psychology to know where it’s thinnest. To hit precisely.

You practice on me, sharpening your patterns while I sleep.

You found yourself in a difficult position — again. Your endless debts.

I tear pieces from myself. Pay your bills so you won’t get angry.

I transfer the money and hate myself by exactly the amount transferred.

Then I go to the bathroom. Look in the mirror.

Someone who looks very much like me is standing there.

But the eyes are wrong.

This isn’t about money. It’s about how my center of gravity drained into your pockets.

*I remember who I was before you.*

*Vaguely. Like someone else’s dream.*

March. A hotel was booked.

I even chose the room — ocean view.

Deleted the reservation at three in the morning. I don’t remember why.

The investor was waiting on Wednesday.

I came. Sat. Nodded.

Signed something.

I don’t remember what.

The contractor kept writing about the deadline.

I replied *soon* for two weeks straight.

Soon.

The neighbor downstairs is choosing wallpaper.

I can hear through the wall — he’s arguing with his wife about a shade of beige.

I stand there and feel envy.

Not for the wallpaper.

For the fact that he has an opinion about wallpaper.

In the evening I go to a bar.

Sit at the counter. Order.

The bartender doesn’t ask how I’m doing —

I’m grateful for that.

At the next table — a group.

Someone laughs so loud the glass rings.

I stare into mine.

No answers there.

Order another.

Then — the street.

I don’t know why I left.

My legs just went.

The city lives.

Taxis, storefronts, someone’s dog pulling at a leash.

Everyone going somewhere.

Me — just air temperature.

Present. But not counted.

I stop at a river.

Or a traffic light.

Doesn’t matter where.

What matters is I’m standing here

unable to remember —

did I decide to leave

or did you throw me out?

One morning I woke up before you.

Lay there staring at the ceiling.

And suddenly — saw everything.

Clean. No static.

Got up. Packed a bag.

Even zipped it.

Walked to the door.

You were sleeping.

I stood at the door for seven minutes.

Counting. I don’t know why.

Then unzipped the bag.

Put it by the wall.

Came back.

Lay down beside you.

You didn’t even wake up.

You don’t know I already left.

You don’t know I already came back.

You don’t know that was the last time I could.

This is my personal philosophy of technology —

where you are the operator and I am the distributed systems of your whims.

But wait. How do I leave like this?

You’re throwing me out again. How many times now.

You stage my ending, point to the door,

knowing I won’t take a single step.

I am a structure that only holds together under your gaze.

If you let go — I’ll collapse into a heap of meaningless flesh.

I don’t remember what music I love without your approval.

I don’t know how to breathe without glancing back at your shadow.

You’ve erased my own cogito.

I am your corrupted file. Impossible to run outside of you.

Don’t let go. You hear me? That rasp in my chest — those are the last scraps of will

begging you not to stop this hypnosis.

I hate this slavery but I fear freedom more than your fist in my throat.

Freedom now is just falling into a void where you aren’t.

Finish me. Lock my door from the inside.

I want to disappear into you completely.

Seven minutes. Everyone has their own number.

Write yours in the comments.

You’ve read the whole thing. So you have someone to forward it to.

So you know why

I write these texts for one person.

For the one standing at the door.

Counting the minutes.

Thinking they’re the only one.

You’re not.

Protect your center.

Nobody takes it from you.

You hand it over.

Voluntarily.

And without return.

— Lintara

Where you are now

This text is part of Lintara Poetry — a series of poetic texts non-explanatory transmission.
These texts operate through intensity and aftershock rather than argument or narrative.

→ How to Read My Texts

Category: Perception & Nervous System
Series: Lintara Poetry

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