What haunts me

 He broke me more times than I can count—so often that I lost track of the first crack, the first ache. And still, I chose him. Again and again. Not because I was weak, but because I believed love was supposed to fight… that it could heal what pain had already tainted. I held on to that fragile hope like it was a lifeline, even as it choked me.

I became the caretaker of my own ruins—gathering the shards of my heart, stitching myself together after every storm he brought. I whispered to myself that this time, maybe he’d see me bleeding and finally care. But each time he came back, it was with the same hands—the same cold, careless hands that tore through me like I was nothing.

He didn’t just hurt me. He watched me crumble. He saw the light go out in my eyes and stayed long enough to watch it flicker back—just to extinguish it again.

What haunts me is that he knew. He knew I would stay. That I’d find excuses for him. That I’d wear my own pain like armor and call it love. He weaponized my forgiveness, turned it into permission.

That’s the cruelest kind of love—the one that doesn’t fear losing you because it knows your heart is loyal, even to the one who keeps breaking it.