The Ghost of HELL
Longing stares have ended, but the echoes still linger in the hollows of my chest. I feel disgusted with myself— for cradling a phantom version of him that was never real to begin with. Why me? Out of all the girls he could have broken, why did he choose me to be his plaything? All I ever did was love him with everything pure in me. And he made it seem as though we were dancing to the same song, like he heard the same melody I did. How did I not see it was only me swaying in the dark? I gave him love, not games. I gave him softness, not strategy. But he saw me as a child, as if my love was too small to matter— like I was a toy, not a girl with a heart that could bruise. I was just a girl who fell for the wrong guy. But nobody warns you that bad guys wear kindness on their faces. And oh, how I gaslight myself into believing he cared. For years, I clung to the idea that maybe—just maybe— he loved me too, even for a moment, even for a day. I called it yearn. But it was denial ...
