He came to me with eyes of glass—

polished and clear,

reflecting not my messy edges,

but a landscape of grace,

a gentle and endless sea.

I was a girl of jagged thoughts,

a house built of splinters,

braced for the storm that never came.

You were the quietest arrival,

the sun slipping through the window,

not with fire, but with warmth,

softening the dust in every corner.

My old story was a hunger.

I searched for belonging in loud rooms,

in sharp words,

in the places that promised something

but only left me emptier.

Then you showed me a new language—

a tender touch, a listening ear,

a stillness that settled

the frantic rhythm of my heart.

You did not try to fix my broken parts.

Instead, you watered the garden

I didn't know I had.

You found the fragile seeds of myself,

the small, terrified things,

and held them to the light.

In your gaze, I was not a project,

but a poem,

unfinished and worth reading.

This was how my life began.

Before the passion in my heart could ignite, there was the raw, immediate heat of your desire. It was a hunger I had known before, but never so gentle. It wasn’t a greedy snatching, but a quiet, all-consuming gaze that promised to devour me whole. I was used to being seen as an object, a fleeting pleasure, and in your eyes, I braced for the familiar, inevitable end. But you moved with a reverence that was new to me, a slow, deliberate touch that felt more like a prayer than a demand. You explored me as if I were a sacred text, each line, each curve, a revelation.

And in the quiet moments after, my mind would whisper its cruelest doubts. It would show me ghosts of every boy who had promised to stay and then left. It would tell me this was just another appetite, a temporary kindness before the true, familiar hunger revealed itself. My heart, so desperate and fragile, would seize with the fear of failure, of having been so wrong about a love I had staked my whole self on. The shame of that potential fall was a ghost I carried, a quiet ache that would surface in the dead of night. Yet, beneath the fear, there was an unwavering faith, a small, stubborn ember that refused to be extinguished. It was a belief in the tenderness I had seen in your eyes, a hope that this time, it was real. This time, I was not just a passing meal, but a home you had been searching for.

The quiet cracks began to show, fissures in the polished glass of your eyes. I saw then what I had feared all along—that my love, so boundless and complete, was something you never asked for, something you did not know how to hold. It became a weight, a heavy cloak I draped over you with every confession, every desperate plea for reassurance. Your tenderness, once a refuge, now felt like a debt you resented, a kindness offered only to be taken away. I wanted to confess everything: how you had remade my world, how the girl I was before you felt like a myth, how my heart was a garden you had planted and now threatened to abandon.

But the words would die on my tongue. The unspoken truth was a wound, an endless, aching pain. My endless pain was the first moment of betrayal, not from you, but from a love I thought was pure. In your gaze, my love became a burden, a tangled mess of need and dependency you could not stomach. I was no longer a poem you wanted to read, but a chapter you wanted to skip. And in that silence, I understood the cruelest lesson of all: a love given freely is not always a love received.

He’s a ghost in my veins, a hollow ache where my heart used to be. My body, a vessel no longer mine, but a haunted house filled with his memory. Every breath I take feels stolen, every step I make is a stumble, because he’s the ground beneath my feet that crumbled to dust.

My limbs are heavy, weighed down by the absence of his touch. My skin remembers the warmth of his hands, now just a phantom sensation that makes me shiver in a cold sweat. He’s a beautiful poison, a sickness I crave, a venom that courses through my blood, making every beat of my heart a painful reminder of what I’ve lost.

I am a broken clock, forever stuck on the moment he left. The hands of time are frozen, mocking me with a past I can’t escape. I am a painting with a single color, a dreary grey that bleeds into the canvas of my life. I am a song without a melody, a story without an ending, a shadow searching for a sun that has already set.

My body is not my own, it is his—a twisted shrine of flesh and bone. He is a parasite, a beautiful sickness that consumes me from the inside out. He's the rhythm in my lungs, the poison in my veins, the muscle of my beating heart. His absence leaves me hollowed out, a walking corpse in a world of the living.

Fear is the language of my love, a constant thrum of anxiety that buzzes beneath my skin. I’m a moth drawn to a flame, knowing it will burn me, yet unable to resist its dangerous allure. I am his to possess, his to break, and I fear the day he decides I am no longer worthy of his destructive love.

This isn't a gentle love; it's a storm that rages within me, a tempest of devotion and rage. I’m a loyal servant to a cruel god, a devotee who offers up her pain as a sacrament. I hate him for the power he holds over me, for the way he makes me ache and yearn for a love that is nothing but a slow, agonizing death. Yet, I bound to him by an invisible chain, a devotion born of a twisted obsession you can't escape.

My pain is a testament to his love, a constant reminder of the inferno that consumed me. I’m a shattered mirror, each shard reflecting a different facet of my misery. I’m a ruin, a monument to a love that was never meant to be. And I would tear down the world if it meant getting back just a single, agonizing moment in his presence. I am not a person, I’m a wound—a festering, unhealing scar left by a man who was both my life and my death.

The world is a downpour, and I'm a windowpane, streaked with the ghost of a love that used to be. Every drop is a memory, a silent tear for a heart that feels like a hollow echo in my chest. I am lost, a wanderer in a landscape of silence, where even the wind whispers his name with a cruel, mocking tenderness.

I find my only solace in the rain, a cold comfort that mimics the ache in my bones. It's a quiet despair, a shared misery between the sky and my soul. The world rushes on, a blur of color and noise, but I am still, held captive by the memory of a caress that was my only umbrella. He shielded me, not from the storm, but from the pain of being alone. And now, the storm rages, and I am bare, unprotected, and utterly, irrevocably drenched in my own sorrow.

But even in this deluge, there is a strange sort of peace. The rain washes over me, a baptism of grief that cleanses, not my pain, but my denial. It's a brutal, honest kind of truth—that he's gone, that I'm lost, that the world is a cold, hard place without him. And yet, there is a glimmer of solace in this acceptance. The rain is my companion, my confidant, the only one who truly understands the depth of my silent, tearless grief.

There’s a poison in my veins, but it’s not his anymore. It’s the venom of a thousand broken promises, each one a tiny dagger twisting in my gut. I thought his love was my air, my blood, my beating heart. But now I know it was just a lie, a beautiful, malicious lie whispered in the dark.

My mind is a shattered mirror, each shard reflecting a different version of the betrayal. I see myself, a fool, a puppet dancing on his strings. I see him, a monster wearing a lover’s face. And I see the truth, a gaping wound where my trust used to be.

The world is a stage, and I am the madwoman, howling at the moon for a love that never existed. I laugh at the irony, at the cruelty of it all. How can something that felt so real, so true, be nothing but a cruel deception? My sanity is a candle flickering in a hurricane, threatening to go out at any moment.

I am a song of sorrow, a melody of melancholy sung by a broken heart. The world has lost its color, bled out into a sea of gray. Every sunrise is a reminder of the darkness, every sunset a promise of a lonely night. My tears are a river of grief, a silent tribute to a love that died before it had a chance to truly live. And in this ocean of sadness, I am a ghost, a specter of the woman I used to be, haunted by the memory of a love that was nothing but a beautiful, tragic lie.

And yet, my body, a traitor, holds a language all its own. It speaks of a memory my mind tries to forget, a story told in the tremble of my hands, the involuntary shiver of my skin. Every nerve ending still remembers the ghost of his touch, a phantom ache that no amount of logic can soothe. It’s a silent conversation, a dialogue of longing between my flesh and the absence of his. I can try to tell myself he was a lie, a monster, but my body knows the truth: that he was the only one who ever truly spoke its language. The curve of my spine still waits for the pressure of his hand, my lips still part for a kiss that will never come. This intimate betrayal is the deepest wound of all. My body remembers the promises his lips never spoke, the comfort his presence offered. And it's that knowledge, this gut-level awareness, that keeps me suspended between the madness and the melancholy. My mind knows the betrayal, but my body only knows the longing, and in that conflict, I am forever lost.

There’s a hunger in my veins that goes beyond the skin, a thirst that can only be quenched by the taste of him. Not just his flesh, but the very essence of him—the blood that courses through his heart, the rhythm of his life. I want to become him, to consume his soul, to make his life a part of my own in the most intimate, ritualistic way imaginable.

This isn’t just desire; it's a ceremony of souls. I want to take a piece of him, a part of our shared history, and make it a part of me forever. I want to feel the ghost of his touch on my skin, the phantom ache of his absence in my bones. I want to become the keeper of his secrets, the guardian of his memories, the one who holds him, even when he’s gone.

This longing is a silent scream, a desperate cry for a connection so deep, it transcends life and death. I want to be the one who knows him, who understands him, who loves him in a way no one else can. I want to become the keeper of his soul because my veins scream for him. Not just for his touch, but for the sacred ache of his presence, the raw, visceral connection that ripped through my soul and left me forever changed. This isn't a gentle longing; it's a consuming fire, a desperate hunger that gnaws at my bones. I want to devour him, not with malice, but with a primal, animalistic love that knows no bounds.

I want to taste his blood on my tongue, not as a symbol of possession, but as a communion, a ritualistic merging of our very beings. I want to feel the thunder of his heart beating against my own, our rhythms becoming one. This is not about soft whispers and tender caresses; it's about the violent, beautiful collision of two souls that were always meant to be intertwined.

My body is a temple consecrated to your memory, its every curve and scar bespoken of a sadness I have surrendered to.

Your name is the only prayer I know.

In fields of green, where whispers softly sighed,

A lonely soul, a seeker, I resided.

I chased a ghost, a flicker in the haze,

Through endless nights and long, unending days.

My compass spun, a needle lost and wild,

A fragile map, a reckless, naive child.

I sought a shore where comfort I might find,

A port of peace to soothe my weary mind.

I found a hand, a promise in his eyes,

A shelter built of sweet, deceptive lies.

I mistook the rust for gold, the chains for grace,

And saw a hero in a vacant space.

He spoke of love, a word I didn't know,

A gentle breeze that masked the undertow.

My youthful heart, it beat a hurried drum,

So unaware of what I would become.

He was the shadow, I, the fading light,

A burning sun that swallowed up the night.

He drew the lines, then stepped across the edge,

And built a home upon a broken hedge.

The words he spoke were blades of ice and steel,

A bitter truth my wounds could not conceal.

I learned of love, not through a tender touch,

But through the hurt, that hurt that meant so much.

He wove a rope of fear and whispered dread,

A heavy shroud that settled on my head.

He cut my wings, then asked me why I'd fall,

And gave me nothing while he took my all.

I searched for strength, a way to break the bind,

But found the knots were twisted in my mind.

The prison bars were etched within my skin,

A silent scream that echoed from within.

The air grew thick, with sorrow and with shame,

As every scar would whisper out his name.

I couldn't run, the ground was far too deep,

The promises were secrets I would keep.

The only key was twisted in his fist,

A lock of pain that begged to be un-kissed.

The world outside was blurred and far away,

And I was lost inside his grim ballet.

But then a choice, a whisper from the ground,

The final truth my bleeding heart had found.

The knife he used, the one that made me bleed,

Had planted deep a final, bitter seed.

I took the blade, the one he held so dear,

And felt the cold and conquered all my fear.

The metal gleamed, a mirror in my hand,

A twisted gift, a path across the land.

I pressed the steel against my fragile life,

And knew at last, this was my final strife.

The crimson bloom that stained the silver-white,

Was not defeat, but finally, a light.

I held the pain, I cradled the despair,

I kissed the blade and breathed the poisoned air.

For in that steel, the sorrow I had known,

Was no longer his, but finally, my own.

The blade was mine, but the cut was his, a wound he gifted with a venomous kiss.

My blood poured out, a river, a flood,

and you stood there smiling, caked in my mud.

I fell to my knees, an echo of my need,

I begged you, "Please, this is a life you bleed."

But you watched me gasp and choke on the air,

and asked me, "Why do you show such despair?

This is what love is, this is what you wanted.

Your every breath with my name, you haunted."

I saw your grin, a mirror to my pain,

a harvest of sorrow from a terrible rain.

You watched me wither, watched me become thin,

and punished me for the love I held within.

You called it weakness, called it a mistake,

to ask for solace for my own heart's sake.

You said, "I don’t know what I do to make you so angry,”

yet you watched me, shattered, as I slowly drowned.

You wanted my silence, my soul to embrace,

while my very lifeblood drained from this place.

I learned to breathe without taking you in,

to close my eyes and feel your sharp pin.

The pain was the rhythm of a song I knew,

a melody of suffering, forever brand new.

I begged you to heal what you had undone,

to shield me from the blinding, burning sun.

But you only forced me to collapse, a sound like broken glass, you left me to die, alone in the grass.

You were the reason, the answer, and the way, yet

the darkness of my final day.

There’s a kind of love that feels like drowning. Not a sudden, violent submersion, but a slow, gentle sinking where the water is warm and the surface just a little too far away. That was my love for him. It was a bottomless well, and I threw myself into it, believing I was finally home.

My recklessness wasn't a choice; it was an ache. An empty space inside me that begged to be filled. I was so young, so foolish, so hungry for a connection that I mistook his darkness for depth. I saw the wounds on his soul and instead of running, I wanted to heal them. I saw his pain and wanted to be the balm, the sanctuary he'd never known. I didn't understand that some people don't want to be healed. They want to spread the sickness.

He was the emotional death I didn't see coming. The abuse wasn’t always a shout or a shove. It was a silent judgment, a look of contempt that cut deeper than any words. It was the way he’d let me pour out my heart, then casually dismiss my feelings as "too much" or "dramatic." He made me feel like my love was a burden, a heavy, unwanted weight. He punished me for needing him, for wanting the very thing he’d promised. "Why are you so emotional?" he’d say, as if my tears were an inconvenience, not a direct result of his cruelty.

I remember begging him to stop. Not with words, but with my eyes, with the way my voice would break as I tried to explain how much I was hurting. I was bleeding out, and I needed him to see it. I needed him to care. But he did nothing. He just watched.

He forced me to bleed alone, to die alone, to breathe alone. He’d leave me in the middle of a storm he had created, then come back later and act as if nothing had happened. My love, the very thing I thought would save me, became the knife that cut me endlessly. Every time I reached for him, every time I forgave him, I was just twisting the blade deeper into myself.

And at the end, the most twisted part of it all was that I held the knife. He had placed it in my hand and told me it was my fault, that my love was the problem. He made me believe that this endless pain was something I deserved, something I had to endure. So I did. I held the blade, the one covered in my own blood, and I loved it. I held it close, kissed its cold steel, and embraced the pain as if it were a lover. Because the pain, at least, was real. It was tangible. It was mine. It was the only part of him that would ever truly belong to me.

This isn't love; it's a slow, agonizing process of becoming a ghost. He was supposed to be my home, the safe harbor I'd been searching for. I built a sanctuary for us, brick by brick, with my own hands and my own heart, only to watch him tear it down with a casual indifference that felt more violent than any rage. My love was the foundation, but he made it a ruin, and then he stood in the wreckage and called it art.

He was a collector of pain, and mine was his masterpiece. He’d create a perfect storm of emotional chaos, then stand back and watch me drown in it, a detached observer of my destruction.

He didn't just hurt me; he used me. My body became a convenience, a silent form of validation for him. He would take what he wanted and then turn away, leaving me feeling hollowed out, used up. The intimacy wasn't a connection; it was a transaction. And when I reached for him, for a touch that was gentle, he would freeze, as if my affection was a foreign object, something he couldn't comprehend. He envied the love he forced me to feel, the very love he belittled. He couldn't understand it, so he had to destroy it. He saw the fire in my heart and instead of warming himself by it, he put it out.

And so, I became him. The sadness he sowed in me grew into a forest of thorns. My joy shriveled up, replaced by a deep-seated melancholy. I became withdrawn, detached, and suspicious of every act of kindness. The beautiful, reckless girl who had stumbled into his life was gone, replaced by a woman with calloused skin and a heart that was a fortress of silent despair. My ruins are because of him. The woman I am now, this broken, scarred version of myself, is a monument to his cruelty. He didn't just leave me; he left behind a landscape of desolation, and in it, I am still searching for the girl I used to be.

My heart was an open field, and I was so young, so foolish, so desperate to plant something that would grow. When he came along, he didn't even have to ask. I gave him everything—my trust, my hope, my body—as if they were nothing more than handfuls of dirt. I built a home for him in my heart, a place where he could be safe from the world, a place I wanted to believe was ours. I called him my man, my great love, even when he never called me his.

The pain he gave me wasn’t a triumphant show; it was a quiet, suffocating neglect. He didn't boast in my suffering because he didn't need to. He knew my pain was a given, an invisible consequence of his presence. He was a master of indifference. My tears didn't make him grin; they made him sigh with a weary impatience, as if my very emotions were an inconvenience. He didn't say, "Look what I've done," but his actions screamed, "Your feelings are not my problem." That was his power—the casual cruelty of simply not caring.

He used my body, not to boast to others, but as a convenience. It was a silent transaction, an unspoken agreement that my physical self was his to take, while my emotional self was a burden he refused to carry. He would take what he wanted, and then leave me alone in the wreckage, not with malice, but with a chilling apathy. I would reach for a simple touch, a gesture of connection, and he would pull back as if my affection was an unwanted thing. It wasn't that he hated the love he saw in me; he just couldn’t understand it. He wasn't a monster who reveled in my pain, but a man so hollowed out, he simply couldn't comprehend the depth of my love. He was an empty well, and I kept throwing myself in, hoping to find water.

My ruin is a monument to his absence, not his rage. He didn't tear me down; he just let me fall apart. He wasn't the blade that cut me, but the person who stood by as I bled, offering no comfort, no bandage, just the unspoken message that my pain was mine alone to bear. The girl I was, the reckless one who believed in endless love, is gone. In her place is a woman with calloused skin and a silent sorrow, still searching for the pieces of herself he so carelessly discarded.