I once felt like an utensil in your hand,
A tool for your glory, your selfish demand.
You spoke of love, but I felt the strain,
Like I was nothing more than a means to your gain.

At fifty-two, you said I was your first,
A love so deep, you claimed, a thirst.
But your words were empty, and your heart was cold,
Leaving me to wonder what you’d truly sold.

You used my kindness, my love, my soul,
A narcissist's game, I played the role.
But you, wrapped in your fragile pride,
Never saw the damage you left behind.

I'm not here to hate, not here to blame,
But your illness doesn’t give you the right to play the game.
Love should be mutual, not one-sided and torn,
Not leaving a heart bruised and worn.

But now, I stand, not broken, but whole,
Rising from the ashes, reclaiming my soul.
I gave my all, but now I see,
It’s time to let go, and set myself free.

Hope isn’t lost, it’s found in the fight,
In knowing my worth, in finding my light.
I am not a tool, I am not a pawn,
I am the storm, the calm, the dawn.

To those like me, who’ve been torn apart,
You are not less for giving your heart.
It’s time to heal, it’s time to grow,
To leave behind what we no longer know.

Grace will come, like a gentle stream,
As you rise from the ashes of broken dreams.
You are worthy of love, of joy, of peace,
A love that’s real, where hurt can cease.

So hold your head high, and walk with grace,
You are more than enough in this vast, wide space.
No longer a piece of someone else’s game,
You are whole, and you'll rise again.