There’s a kind of sadness in the way I love you now. I love you even when I know I can’t reach all of you. I love you when you pull away, when you don’t speak, when I’m begging silently for you to meet me where I am and you just… can’t.
And maybe it’s not your fault. Maybe you never meant to hurt me. But I’ve been bleeding quietly for years, calling what we have love while I ignore all the ways it keeps breaking me.
You are my beautiful trauma. My comfort and my confusion. And I don’t know how to carry both anymore.



















