It's on days like this
when the silence grows heavy,
and my heart aches louder than the room can swallow,
that I realize I'm damaged when it comes to love.
You might say it's fair.
You might say it's not.
But I've long stopped debating fairness with fate.
I've stopped caring about right or wrong,
because the truth is,
I'm tired.
Tired of giving more than I receive.
Tired of showing up with my whole heart,
only to watch it be overlooked,
or worse,
used as a temporary placeholder
until someone better comes along.
So now,
I find myself retreating.
Not to bitterness,
but to safety.
I'd rather love a stranger on a screen,
a voice I'll never hear in real life,
a smile I'll never touch,
than hand out my heart again
to someone who will never choose me.
Never stay.
Never see me.
Because reality...
has made me grow weary of love.
And slowly,
without even noticing,
I'm learning to hate it.
What I hate is Not the idea of love.
No, that still dances somewhere in my imagination.
But I hate this real-world version,
this reckless, careless, selfish version of love that has bruised me.
And while I haven't completely closed the door,
I don't reach for the handle anymore either.
I just sit by the window,
watching the rain blur everything beyond the glass,
and wonder…
was it ever real for me?
Or was I always meant to be
the one who loves in silence,
and bleeds in poetry?