I used to whisper my worth in the quiet, soft like a secret I wasn't sure I deserved.

You grew used to my silence-took my patience as permanence.

And maybe that's on me... for loving louder than I was loved, for showing up

when you were just there.

You dangled "almost" like it was a promise, gave me just enough to keep my hope breathing, but not enough to ever feel held.

I bent,

I stayed,

I hoped you'd meet me halfway-but you never even tried to stand.

And now, here I am.

Shaking, but standing.

Not because I want to,

God knows l'd rather stay curled in the comfort of what almost felt like love— but because I have to.

Because my soul is starving

on crumbs I keep pretending are meals.

Because choosing you

has become a slow death of me.

And choosing me might break my heart-but it'll save it, too.

This grief is not weakness.

This ache is proof:

I finally saw the truth and didn't look away.

So Ileave.

Not because I stopped caring.

But because I started caring about me more.

And maybe one day you'll feel the shift, the absence of my effort,

the cold where my warmth used to live— and realize you mistook devotion for forever.

But by then, I'll be long gone.

Wounded, yes-but wide awake.