I Have No More Heartbreak To Give You

I have spent most of my life standing at the edge of your table, begging for scraps. I have lived there for so long, my hands outstretched, heart wide open, hoping—aching—for a crumb. A glance. A nod. A moment where I might finally feel like I mattered to you. Like I was seen not as something to silence or shame, but as someone worthy of love. Of kindness. Of something that felt like family.

But it never came. Not the way I needed it to. Not in any form that healed.

I bent for you. I contorted myself in ways that fractured me. I became so many versions of myself just trying to find the one you could accept. I choked down every wrong, every slight without an apology, or even acknowledgement. I bled for your approval and built cathedrals out of every cruel silence, convinced I just needed to try harder. I told myself you were tired, hurting, distracted—that if I could just be quieter, better, brighter—you’d finally see me. Finally love me.

But there is no middle. There’s only the pedestal you believe you were born to stand on and the floor where I’ve been asked to crawl.

I think you believe you are worthy of that pedestal. That you are king. And I? I was your jester. Welcomed when I entertained, discarded when I dared to speak truth. Tossed aside like an inconvenience. I have danced for your favour, begged for your presence, suffered in silence while you reigned in cruelty. And I know, now, who pulls your strings. I know how little effort it takes for you to give yourself away.

Still, I tried. For years, I tried. For decades, I tried. I poured my heart into the hollow space you left and waited for it to echo back love.

But I have no more heartbreak to give to you.

I am done bleeding for someone who never brought a bandage. Done offering the softest parts of me to hands that never held with care. I am done with the contortion, the silence, the shame.

My healing began the moment I stopped trying to twist myself into something you could love. Love should not feel like begging. It should not feel like walking barefoot through glass for a seat at someone’s table. It should not feel like sacrificing your soul for a sliver of validation.

So I am opening my fists. I am loosening the grip I’ve had on the fantasy of you. I am laying it all down—every ache, every unanswered call, every hope I’ve held onto that one day you’d finally be the man I needed, or at bare minimum a man not constantly clawing and trying to hurt me.

And maybe you think your absence says something about me. But it doesn’t. It screams you. Your retreat, your silence, your inability to love me in a way that was whole and human and warm—it’s your story, not mine.

I carry sorrow. Of course I do. A sorrow so deep it braided itself into my bones. A grief so old it speaks fluently in my dreams. But I carry something else now, too. I carry hope. And peace. And the bright, blooming truth that I never needed to be chosen by someone who never had the courage to see me.

There is a future waiting for me where the wound of you no longer weeps. There is joy ahead that is pure. There is a breath, unburdened. A life unfolding.

I have no more heartbreak to give to you. And I finally understand—I never should have had to.

Peace, Love, and Inspiration,
~Britt Wolfe💚