Honestly,
yesterday felt like just another day
of being in love
and being broken.
Broken not by silence,
but by your words,
sharp and cruel,
echoing louder than your absence.
I searched for you
in the quiet corners of today,
in the lingering warmth of yesterday,
hoping I might find a trace of the man
I thought you were.
But all I found
were broken promises
and well-rehearsed lies.
You didn't just break me, you played me.
Like I was your favorite comedy,
the one you knew all the lines to.
And every time I believed in us,
you laughed behind the curtains.
You made a stage of my heart,
and I became your punchline.
I was the fool who kept coming back
for the same scene,
thinking this time,
you might change the script.
I want to forgive you.
I do.
But even more than that,
I want to forgive myself.
For allowing you in,
for believing in the illusion,
for mistaking performance for passion.
I have sweet memories,
they exist.
But whenever I try to hold them,
the pain arrives first.
It wraps around those moments
like fog over a sunrise.
And suddenly, I can't remember the joy.
Only the ache.
Only the way it felt
to be played
again
and again
and again…
I thought I was being loved.
But I was just being watched,
like something temporary.
Like something you could fast forward,
rewind, pause,
but never hold onto.
My heart still hurts.
Every day.
So I let you go.
At least, I try.
But even that feels like an endless cycle.
Like I'm just letting go of you
only to hold onto the pain.
I don't know how to stop.
I don't know what's next.
I only know
that love was never supposed to feel like this.
And somehow,
I still miss you
in the middle of knowing
you never really loved me back.