I took you by the scruff of the neck,
not out of anger,
but because the weight of your blindness
had grown too heavy to ignore.

Dragged from the comfort of shadows,
where excuses bloom like weeds,
I held you to the mirror--
not the kind that flatters,
but the kind that reflects
every fracture you tried to forget.

Your struggles kicked against the pull,
words sharp with denial,
but truth does not soften
for the sake of pride.
It stands,unyielding,
waiting for eyes brave enough to see.

Look,I said,
not with cruelty,but with a force
born from knowing what rot can do
when left unchecked.
See the damage etched in faces,
the echoes of choices
you swore were justified.

You fought the grip,
but somewhere between resistance and reckoning,
your struggle turned inward,
fingers loosening not from my hold
but from the fragile illusion
you clung to like armor.

It was never about humiliation--
only the ache of pulling someone
from the quicksand
they called solid ground.
Sometimes, truth has to be carried,
even if it leaves bruises
where fingers gripped too tightly.