It must come to an end, and that is loving you.

Not because I want to—

God, I wanted to stay.

I wanted the version of you

that only lived in the seconds

right before you broke me.

The laugh before the silence.

The hand before the shove.

The _I love you_

before the _why are you so hard to love?_

I planted flowers

in the graveyard of your promises,

thinking something beautiful

might grow from grief.

I turned your cruelty into scripture.

Called the sharpness passion.

Told myself it wasn’t **_that_** bad—

until I couldn’t cry

without listening for your footsteps.

This isn’t strength.

It’s survival.

And I’ve survived enough for you.

It must come to an end, and that is loving you.

Because if I don’t let it die—

I will.