You were a storm I kept trying to love into sunlight.
Every excuse, every second chance,
I handed you my heart like it was a clearance rack item—
discounted, disposable,
yours to shred and return broken.
Toxic love does that—
it convinces you that this is normal.
That gaslighting is just “miscommunication.”
That silence is love,
that control is passion,
that boundaries are negotiable.
But here’s the truth:
You didn’t just break me.
You hollowed me out.
You took until there was nothing left of me—
no laughter, no voice, no self-worth.
And still, I kept pouring from an empty cup,
thinking maybe if I bled enough,
you’d finally notice I was the one keeping us alive.
But I’ve learned something about healing.
It’s not about waiting for an apology
that will never come.
It’s about saying: I’m done.
No contact. No guilt. No more explaining why I’m walking away.
Because self-love isn’t selfish.
It’s survival.
And I’d rather rebuild from ashes
than stay burning in your fire.
So here’s my boundary, my mic drop, my final line:
You don’t get another piece of me.
Not my time, not my energy,
not my worth.
I’m not empty anymore.
I’m free.
