I always gave you more attention than I received.
Made sure your hands were never empty,
your nights never too cold,
your mind never alone with itself.
I defended your name like it was sacred,
like every cruel word thrown your way
had to pass through me first.
I never spoke to you the way you spoke to me,
never sharpened my tongue into a weapon,
never carved wounds into your skin
just to watch you bleed.
Yet here I am,
after everything you’ve done to me,
still catering to your every need.
Still reaching for the ghost of what was,
still holding onto what will never be.
And I hate myself for it.
Hate myself for not being strong enough to move on,
while convincing myself leaving would be weakness.
Because you were always the one I fought for.
Always the one I worked for.
Always the one I saw waiting for me at the end
no matter how dark the road became.
Even now,
after the damage,
after the sleepless nights and the silence
that crushes my chest like collapsing stone,
I still cannot see you as anything less
than the person I would destroy myself for.
The pain brings me to my knees,
breaks me in ways no one will ever comprehend,
splits me apart quietly
where nobody can witness it.
Still, I stand.
Still, I continue forward
on this dead man’s path,
dragging what remains of me
through the ruins of your loveless wake
just for one more moment beside you.
One more moment
where I can pretend
that all this suffering
meant something to you too.