Spilled Ink from the Vault

There it is, that little voice I haven’t missed. 
She seeps in uninvited, like rain through a cracked window.
You’re not enough. 

I fold the feelings back up again,
return them to the drawer labeled
things not mine
I didn’t want them anyway.

You’ve crossed no boundaries,
but the Savage in me trespasses. 
She paces the room
counting what you give away to others,
tally marks on the walls of a prison she built herself.
Why does she always insist on competition where there is none?
Especially when she knows I’ll lose. 

I hate her for taking your searching
as evidence.
She wields this as a cruel blade
and I indulge her like a masochist. 
I ask the questions to hear the answers
I do not want
and then pick at the wounds to watch the blood.

One certainty settles, and I cannot like it.
I cannot stay here. This is unsafe for me.
How do I find the words to tell you
I have found a new boundary.
See! This is why I do not sub.  The answer 
is simple.  Of course.  I safeword.
I merely delineate new lines.  Consent 
is fluid, and I am allowed
to change my mind.
Except that little voice finds fault over and again.