You made me build a world on lies —
each stone you placed, you named it love,
but it was fear that held the walls,
and silence that sealed the doors.
I lived there once —
in the echo of your voice,
painting sunlight on the cracks,
pretending warmth was real.
You called it safety.
I called it home.
But it was a cage disguised as care,
a story that was never mine.
Now the air tastes different.
Now the walls crumble under truth.
I step outside the ruin, barefoot,
the ground raw and real beneath me.
You taught me how to hide —
so I taught myself to be seen.
You taught me numbness —
so I learned to feel again.
Your lies once shaped my sky,
but my hands rewrite the dawn.
I am no longer the ghost
you tried to make of me.
I am breathing —
and this time,
the breath is mine.
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