The Good Boy Died in His Sleep

They want your edges filed. You give them knuckles, grit, and the part of your story that still smells like gasoline.

They told you to breathe.
You locked your jaw instead.
The air tasted too clean.
Too sterile for a man
who’s been chewing on his own restraints.

They said,
Heal.
You heard,
Obey.

So you bit back
everything holy in you
until your spit turned black.

They didn’t want healing.
They wanted declawing.
Sit still.
Play nice.
Apologize for your voice
before you use it.

But you were built
in fire and silence.
Built by men
who taught you
that kindness without teeth
was a fucking liability.

So now,
sharpen everything.

Be the scar they try to talk around.
Be the storm
that doesn’t ask permission
to break the silence.

They want your edges filed.
You give them
knuckles,
grit,
and the part of your story
that still smells like gasoline.

Don’t you dare
heal into something digestible.

Spit.
Crack.
Shatter.
Leave fingerprints
on everything you weren’t allowed to touch.

Let your “no”
feel like a slammed door
with the lock twisted
just as the pleading starts.

Let your “yes”
feel like a knife
that only points forward.

You were not made
to be manageable.
You were made
to be felt.
Unapologetically.
Uncomfortably.
Undeniably.

Rip the patience off.
Rip the peace off.
Rip the good-boy mask off
until your real face
makes the room step back
like it saw something
that doesn’t care
who it scares anymore.

You don’t need to be more positive.
You need to be more dangerous.

And if they want soft,
they better bring gloves.

Beyond the Bruise:

📝 Poems land on random weekdays.
🖤 Paid subs get the full weight.
☕ Buy Me a Coffee keeps ink alive.
📖 My books carry the longer story.
👕 Shadow Thoughts merch wears the dark.
🕊 Healing Thoughts holds the softer breath.