It wore the name of love, so sweet, so fair,

But clung like smoke, like poison in the air.

You said you needed me — a lovely phrase —

Yet caged my soul inside your haunted gaze.

You whispered dreams, and I believed the lie,

While shadows flickered deep behind your eye.

It wasn’t love that wrapped around my skin,

But chains of want, demanding what’s within.

You called it fate, you said we’re meant to be —

But love does not devour to feel free.

You fed on me, on all I hoped to be,

Till I was less of me, and more of we.

Your touch, too rough — your silence, sharp as knives,

A ghost that danced between our tangled lives.

And when I cried, you said it proved it real —

But real love never breaks what it should heal.

It wasn’t love — it was a hunger, blind,

A desperate grasp to own what you could find.

And now I see, what once felt like delight

Was just obsession, dressed in borrowed light.

So here’s the truth — love’s not what we became.

It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t thrive on shame.

It builds, it breathes, it frees — it doesn’t bind.

I leave the ruins of what you called mine.