I don’t think I’ll ever make peace with it.
Not with what she became.
A hollow ache curdles in the pit of my stomach,
an echo of disbelief, a sickening reminder.
The person I loved so fiercely,
the woman I knew with every corner of my heart,
transformed into something foreign,
something that turns my insides cold.
I trace back the memories,
the smiles, the quiet moments,
her eyes—once a world I felt safe in.
And now, the same eyes haunt me in dreams,
turned sharp, distant, haunted by choices
that pull her further and further away
from who she was,
from who I thought we could be.
Night after night, sleep brings no peace.
Nightmares cradle me instead,
painted in shades of her shadow.
She’s there,
but changed, twisted by decisions
that spit in the face of what we once dreamed.
She chose that life over me,
over the family I begged for,
hands raw from pleading,
knees bruised by hope’s cruel betrayal.
I loved her with a desperation
that swallowed me whole,
and in the end,
she turned away,
chose something so unimaginable
it leaves a metallic tang of disgust
on my tongue,
lingering like a ghost that whispers
that I’ll never forget,
that I’ll never heal.
To know that I wasn’t enough,
that our future was a mirage—
a trick of light in a desert of denial.
This is my sadness,
a forever wound that festers,
the haunting that lives with me,
breathing where hope once dared to.