No More in I Kept the Pieces That Hurt the Most

I used to believe in love. Not just in the way people talk about it, but in the way the sun rises— certain, steady, undeniable.

I thought love was soft hands, late-night whispers, the feeling of being known. I let it fill me, let it shape the way I saw the world.

But love is not what I thought it was. It is not a promise, not a refuge, not a thing that stays.

Now, I taste bitterness where there was once sweetness. I look at love the way you look at a flame after it has burned you: from a distance, with wary eyes, knowing better.