I Know I Am Wrong
It’s shameful, the way I clutch.
Like a child with a broken toy,
believing if I just hug it tight enough,
it’ll fix itself.
I know people aren’t possessions.
But tell that to the part of me
that has only known love as something
that gets taken
just when I start to believe it’s mine.
I rot with envy when he smiles at someone else—
not because they don’t deserve it,
but because I wish I was enough to keep the sun on me.
I feel foolish,
needy,
like a vine growing wild,
twisting too tightly around something
never meant to hold me.
This isn’t love, maybe.
This is fear in a dress made of want.
This is heartbreak rehearsing hope
because that’s all I’ve ever been taught:
to perform,
to plead,
to be left.
And still,
I stay—
because when he speaks,
it feels like the walls remember my name.
Because being near him
hurts less than being without him.
I know I am wrong,
but I am honest.
And maybe that’s something.
Copyright © Adwaita Patane | Year Posted 2025
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