Stream of Consciousness
Conditioned
I know before it starts. I always do. When your name comes up, when the message hits, when something in me recognizes the pattern before I even open it— I know. Every reason not to. Every version of this I’ve already lived through. I could walk away. Clean. Easy. Final. There’s a moment for it. There always is. And then— something shifts. Not confusion. Not hope. A switch. Like I step out of myself and hand control over to a version of me that already agreed to this. The reasons don’t disappear. They just stop having weight. I start rewriting things I know aren’t true. Maybe it’s different. Maybe I handled it wrong. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough. I don’t believe any of it. I don’t need to. I just need enough to go back. And I do. Every time. Not blindly. Not accidentally. I walk into it with full awareness of what it is and what it does. And while it’s happening— while the tone shifts, while I feel myself being pulled into the same exact places— there’s a second voice. Clear. Unmoving. This is going to hurt you. And I let it. Not because I don’t know better. Because I’ve already decided knowing isn’t enough to stop me. I participate. I let things slide I already said I wouldn’t. I take in things I know aren’t mine. I make room for something I already know won’t hold me. And every time— it ends the same. Not loud. Worse. Expected. Like finishing something I never should’ve started again. And then— it’s gone. Not the memory. Not the pattern. The feeling. It doesn’t hurt the same. It doesn’t land the same. It doesn’t reach me the way it used to. Because something in me stopped responding. Not to everything. Just to you. To anything that carries your name, your voice, your pattern. It’s like my system learned that caring here only leads to damage— so it shut it down. Completely. No anger. No attachment. No reaction. Nothing. And when you say I’m different— say I’m cold— I don’t argue. Because you’re right. But it didn’t come out of nowhere. It was built. Every time I went back knowing what it was. Every time I stayed after I already had enough to leave. Every time I chose it over myself. That’s what comes back. Not you. Not even the hurt. Just the memory of it— and a version of me that learned exactly where not to feel and never turned it back on.
By Tifani Power 6 months ago in Poets
