The Saddest Thing

The saddest thing
isn’t the breaking.
It’s the way you waited for it.
Watched for the cracks
like harvest.
Watered them with blame.
Fed them with silence.
Waited for the moment
you could finally
twist something shattered
into something soft.

Not out of care.
But control.

You never wanted love.
You wanted obedience.
And when the mind began to fray,
you called it fate—
your chance.
Your proof.
As if confusion could be consent.
As if forgetting
was the same as forgiving.

And then,
you wrote it down.
You screamed it out.
You accused others of your own designs,
projected your confessions
like shadows on walls—
hoping no one would trace them
back to the shape of your hand.

How tragic.
How small.
To know the only way
you might ever be loved
is by lying to someone
who no longer knows
how to say no.

That isn’t care.
That isn’t closeness.
That’s theft
in a hospital gown.

You can call it devotion,
but we all know—
you’ve always called your worst acts
something noble.

And even now,
you can't stand the truth:
the person you’re trying to fool
never loved you the way you needed.
Not before.
Not now.
Not ever.

So here you are,
trying to squeeze warmth
from a ghost,
and calling it a miracle.

But we see it.
We all see it.
And there’s nothing lonelier
than being caught
mid-lie—
still calling it love.