Chapter 1
I loved you like an artist paints the end of the world—
with trembling hands and colors that never existed.
You said I was too much,
and maybe I was—
but only because I mistook your silence for sanctuary.
There are nights I still taste your absence
like ash on my tongue,
the kind that no amount of poetry can rinse clean.
You taught me that love is not always soft—
sometimes it’s a knife that asks to be kissed.
Sometimes it’s the way you smile
while watching the fire you started.
I kept all your ghosts in my ribs,
called them inspiration,
called them art.
But truth is,
I was just afraid to be ordinary
after surviving you.
Tell me,
was I ever real to you?
Or just another tragedy
you wanted to write about?
Because I’ve learned—
some people don’t come into your life to love you.
They come to ruin you beautifully,
and leave you to write about the wreckage.
