Was It Ever Love?”

A Reckoning After 11 and a Half Years

I gave you years—

not just numbers on a calendar,

but seasons etched into me.

Birthdays, breakdowns,

quiet mornings, silent wars.

I stitched you into my future

while you rewrote the ending behind closed doors.

You told me I was your everything—

then made me feel like nothing

for asking to be seen.

You held me like I was precious,

but only when I folded myself

small enough to fit between your fingers.

Was it love?

Or control, wrapped in roses?

Was it need? Possession?

Or was I just convenient—

a mirror you could twist

to reflect the parts of you you missed?

You made me question

my memory, my feelings, my worth.

You turned apologies into riddles,

and made me say sorry

just for being hurt.

But I am not your puppet.

Not your project.

Not your shelter

if you keep setting fires inside me.

And still, I stayed.

Because love—real love—is patient, right?

Because I thought pain meant passion.

Because I thought if I healed you,

I might be whole, too.

But love shouldn’t leave bruises

in places no one can see.

Love shouldn’t make you

doubt your own voice, your own sanity.

And now—

I love myself more

than the hope of who you might’ve become.

I choose me.

The version of me who won’t trade peace for proximity,

who won’t flinch at affection

or shrink just to feel safe.

Maybe you loved me—

in the only way you knew how.

But that love was not enough.

It was never enough.

And it never will be.

I deserved more.

And now—

I’m becoming more.

More than you’ll ever be.