you don’t get to call it love now

the pull doesn’t make sense to you
because you can’t fathom the violence it took for me to stay this gentle.

you don’t know how many times i had to choose softness
when survival demanded something uglier.
you don’t know how many times i could’ve turned bitter
and chose to stay whole instead.

you hurt me because i saw you.
clearly. sharply. without mercy.
i saw the truths you buried under your ego.
i saw the parts of you rotting.
and i held up a mirror even when it cut my own fucking hands.

and still—
when i had every reason to gut you,
i stayed soft.

i gave you kindness you didn’t earn.
compassion you didn’t return.
love that demanded nothing from you
when you had nothing real to give back.

and maybe that’s what’s still clawing at you.
not my anger.
not my silence.
not even my absence.

it’s the way i never became your cruelty.

it’s the way you gave me every reason to become like you—
and i didn’t.

you burned through every bit of goodness you thought would always refill itself.
but people like me don’t come twice.

you don’t get to call it love now.

you don’t get to miss what you tried to destroy.
you don’t get to ache for something you left bleeding.
you don’t get to name the wreckage "love"
just because you can still see the outline of what you lost.

i was real.
i was devastatingly fucking real.

and you will never—
never—
feel that again.