In Loving Ruin

I bled for you— and now I fear I have run dry, drained of love, of purpose, of self, yet still, it was not enough. My heart aches, but this wound is my own, a betrayal of the self, a blade I wielded against my own best interest. I am trapped in the cycle, repeating the same heartbreak, chasing ghosts through the corridors of memory, reaching for echoes of the feeling you gave me. Am I broken? A wound that festers, never mending? Or merely a speck in the wind, a passenger of fate’s cruel indifference? To this, I have no answer. For as I age, the weight of knowing nothing grows heavier. And yet, with clarity comes consequence I now see why you left, why your words cut clean to my bones. I know why I could never be what you needed. So who is there to blame but myself? And so I bleed, wounds open, fever unbroken, for to let go of this pain is to sever the last thread of peace I have ever known.