You dreamed me in candlelight, soft edges, no shadow, no spine; a shape to fill the hollows of your unfinished self. Not a woman, but a whisper of one.
You named me gentle before I spoke, kind before I doubted, yours before I breathed.
I stayed quiet while you wrote the story you wanted me to live in; a love with no clauses, no agency, no weight. A devotion with doll-joints, pliant and smiling.
But I was never a mirror. I cracked the glass by simply being real.
You called it betrayal when I stepped outside the frame. You wept for the ruin of your castle of mist and blamed the wind.
But I was not the storm. I was the truth. The quiet, unbeautiful, necessary truth. I never left you. You just never saw me; only your hope wearing my skin.