POS
He came in like scripture spoken soft in candlelight,
Hands full of promises, eyes rehearsed just right.
Said he’d never leave, said he’d finally found home,
Made forever sound holy in the way he spoke alone.
But she was a woman stitched together out of scars,
Built from sleepless nights and abandoned hearts in bars.
Too many “I love you’s” turned to slammed doors and fists,
Too many ghosts still living in the corners of her ribs.
So she moved slow.
Not cruel — just careful with her soul.
Love wasn’t something she handed out for free,
Trust had become a language buried underneath debris.
And he hated that.
Hated every boundary she built around her pain,
Hated how she questioned sunshine after years of rain.
He wanted instant worship, immediate surrender,
A woman soft and blind enough to never remember.
So while she learned his laughter,
He learned other women’s names.
While she was trying to heal,
He was perfecting little games.
He fed lonely girls the same rehearsed lines,
Copy-paste affection wrapped in counterfeit designs.
Every “baby, you’re different” was a trick he reused,
A snake shedding faces depending who he used.
And still —
She stayed.
Because somewhere beneath the wreckage and the rage,
She saw a wounded little boy locked inside a cage.
She saw him help strangers while nobody helped him,
Saw exhaustion in his eyes growing cold and dim.
So she tried harder.
Even while drowning in her own disasters too,
She still carried pieces of his burdens like they were hers to do.
Found him work. Bought him gifts.
Protected his pride when his whole world would shift.
But love to him was ownership, never protection.
Control disguised itself as affection.
Soon his voice became thunder before every storm,
Cruelty started fitting him a little too warm.
He stopped speaking to her — he spoke at her instead,
Like every word she uttered deserved punishment instead.
He brought women around the place they used to share,
Then screamed when she noticed like her hurt was unfair.
Called her crazy. Called her weak.
Turned her tears into entertainment every single week.
And somehow the worst part wasn’t even his hands,
It was watching him let others destroy her where she stands.
Friends laughing at her pain.
Family joining in the game.
And him — standing silent like betrayal had no name.
She couldn’t warn him either.
Couldn’t mention the theft, the lies, the decay.
Because he defended every addict that helped him escape himself each day.
His grown child could wound her,
Some junkie girl could spit venom in her face,
And he’d still protect them faster
Than he ever protected the woman begging him for grace.
That’s when she realized —
Some people don’t wear masks to hide monsters.
The mask is the only human part they own.
And underneath?
Nothing but hunger.
Nothing but ego sharpened into bone.
He didn’t love her.
He loved being loved.
Loved the feeling of power when somebody stayed through blood.
Loved devotion without responsibility attached.
Loved watching broken women beg while he detached.
He was a cathedral full of darkness pretending to be light,
A demon learning poetry just to survive the night.
And still she loved him.
God… she hated that part.
Hated how her chest still softened when she thought of his face,
How memories could poison someone slowly without leaving a trace.
Because even devils know how to dance when they need to deceive,
And lonely hearts will romanticize anything they can’t leave.
But the final night came quiet.
Not loud like the others before.
No dishes breaking.
No threats pacing the floor.
Just her — collapsed beside the bed,
Sobbing so hard she thought grief itself had entered her chest instead.
Begging the universe to explain
Why love always arrived wearing pain.
And somewhere between the screaming and the ache,
Something inside her finally decided to break.
Not her spirit.
Not her worth.
Just the chains.
She realized loving him was digging her own grave,
Mistaking survival for being brave.
She could not save a man who fed off her despair,
Could not heal someone who enjoyed leaving wounds there.
So she stood up shaking.
Wiped bloodshot eyes dry.
And for the first time…
She let the fantasy die.
She told him she hated him.
Cold voice. Empty stare.
Not because it was true —
But because love was still painfully there.
She needed distance to survive his disease,
Needed anger to do what heartbreak never frees.
And somewhere tonight he probably tells another girl she’s “the one,”
While she relearns how to exist beneath a sun.
But one day —
When her hands no longer tremble saying his name,
When memories stop arriving wrapped in shame,
She’ll understand this truth completely and clear:
The right man never makes love taste this much like fear.