gave myself away to you
not just my body,
but the quiet places I don’t show anyone.
The parts that tremble, the parts that trust.
You touched me like you meant forever,
and I believed you.
I thought what I gave
was an exchange for loyalty,
for home,
for something I could build my heart around.
But forever, it turns out,
was just a word you wore for the night.
Now I cry over the pieces I can’t reclaim
the way I let you in,
believing it was safe to be seen.
The way I opened myself like a prayer
and you walked away before the amen.
You said you loved me,
but love shouldn’t leave me feeling disposable.
It shouldn’t make me beg
for your time,
your attention,
your gaze to stay a second longer.
What hurts the most
is how sacred it felt to me
and how ordinary it must have been to you.
I replay the moments that felt like eternity,
wondering if they ever reached you at all.
Because now,
I just feel like sex.
Like a memory you can touch without meaning.
Like something you used to need,
but never truly wanted.
And I hate that I still whisper your name
in the dark,
as if it might bring me back
to a love that was never really mine.
You had me
all of me
and I thought that meant something.
But maybe I was only a lesson,
a softness you weren’t ready to hold.
Still, I carry the ache like a scar
a reminder that I gave myself completely,
and though you didn’t honor it,
it was real to me.
And that, somehow,
is both my ruin
and my redemption.
