You kept my heart on a leash,
tight enough to stay,
loose enough to leave me guessing.
You stitched my scars with your silence
and called it devotion.
You fed my wounds crumbs of affection—
I was starving,
and you knew.
I used to think love meant endurance.
That if it hurt, it must mean it mattered.
But pain doesn’t equal passion,
it equals possession,
and you wanted to own me
more than you ever wanted to choose me.
You fed my wounds and called it love.
And I believed you—
because no one taught me
that love shouldn’t taste like bleeding.
You’d disappear when I cried,
return when I healed,
like I was a hospital you refused to fund
but needed in emergencies.
Every “I love you” sounded like bait.
And I—
girl, I swallowed the hook
because I didn’t know I could say no
without apologizing first.
But now I know better.
Now I know that love is not supposed to
make you shrink to fit someone’s comfort.
It’s not supposed to
make you argue with your own reflection.
It’s not supposed to
leave you begging for the bare minimum
like it’s luxury.
I deserve more.
Say it with me:
I deserve more.
More than apologies that sound like weather reports.
More than affection that expires in the morning.
More than being loved only when I’m quiet
and easy to swallow.
You fed my wounds and called it love—
but I’m done eating pain for dinner.
I am returning myself back to myself.
I am choosing air over suffocation.
I am choosing my own damn heartbeat
over your convenient affection.
I am choosing peace,
even if it comes with loneliness at first—
because at least loneliness is honest.
So here’s to the girl I was:
the one who thought being chosen
was the win.
And here’s to the woman I am now:
the one who chooses herself
even if it means walking away.
This is not bitterness.
This is clarity.
Don’t call what you gave me love.
Love grows.
Love pours.
Love sees.
Love doesn’t hide behind excuses.
I fed myself truth
and finally—
I got full.
