I saw it happen again and again, right in front of me,
ending before anything could even begin.
No build, no collapse, just absence where something should’ve been.
I needed a name for that kind of repetition.
So I called it the curse.
I’ve tried to make sense of it, to break it down into something rational, something I could turn into a conclusion.
But you can’t control the outcome of someone else’s choice, can you?
You can’t make them stay, or start, or feel.
So what else is left but the curse?
I fumbled the love the universe, God, placed in my hands.
I told them I wasn’t ready.
That I wasn’t built for it, not fit to carry something like that.
It felt like too much, like it would spill through me if I tried to hold it.
And maybe that was the moment it marked me. The same red mark, meant for other lovers to notice without knowing why.
And I pay for it, every single time.
I have dreams where my skin peels like it’s burned.
My lovers kiss it like it’s the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen. They embrace it, and treat it with care. But I look in the mirror. Do I accept it? Do I want to let myself be loved like this? It looks repulsing, unsanitary to me.
The curse doesn’t let me taste love. It keeps me suspended in a different time and space, where it doesn’t cross the line of reality. More or less turns into “never enough,” drowning me in the possibility of almost.