Part IV · Fallout
Leash
I stepped toward the altar,
not in holiness—
but in habit.
Performing repentance like a role I forgot I auditioned for,
just to bury what I couldn’t bear to name.
Everything in me was reaction.
To her rage.
To my shame.
To the God I thought might still be watching.
I called it faith.
But it was fear—
a leash I wore like devotion,
afraid to ask if I deserved better.
I held myself up with borrowed prayers,
but underneath,
I was crumbling.
Worshipping my own image
of what a man should be.
It’s strange—
how survival teaches silence.
How arrogance dresses like strength
just to keep the truth from bleeding out.
Even when I begged—
even when I said please—
she made sure I knew:
I deserved it.
The leash.
The bruises.
The blame.
And for a long time,
I believed her.