Jul 15
You think I smiled when I saw him unravel? Truth? I mistook your crown for his to hand me. But I never asked for the robe sewn in someone else's sorrow.
He told me stories—halves and edits, painted you as a cold house with burnt meals and bitter sighs. I believed him. Believed the man who couldn’t even tell the truth to the mirror.
The perfume he wore—mine? No. It was diluted with guilt. And when he came to me, he brought silence where affection should’ve been.
Did I win him? If you call walking beside a man whose heart homes regret and lies—victory— then perhaps I did. But it never felt like triumph. Just borrowed time on borrowed lips.
You washed his sins. I watched him repeat them. Polished shoes and ironed guilt, you made a home— I offered only escape.
I saw your name tangled in his hesitation. I noticed how he didn’t flinch when my fingers searched him, but he shivered whenever your name slipped into the silence.
Perhaps I was never gatekeeping— just unknowingly guarding a man who belonged to a story far nobler than mine.
I didn’t steal your husband.
He wandered. I opened the door.
If your vows couldn’t anchor him,
what makes you think I held the rope?
Don’t look at me like I shattered glass.
He came to me with shards in his pockets,
already bleeding, already broken—
already yours, and yet halfway gone.
He called me “escape.”
Whispered your name only when guilt cracked through the sheets.
I didn’t ask for your silence.
He offered it like dessert.
A side dish to his tired love and recycled affection.
I am not your enemy.
I am your mirror.
Reflecting what he never confessed.
While you folded his clothes,
I was untucking his truths.
He smelled of home-cooked compromise.
Tasted of half-truths and conditional loyalty.
And you? You let him come back every night
like loyalty was just habit.
Don't preach to me about morality.
He wore your love like a coat—
only when it was cold enough
to make him miss your warmth.
He told me your love was routine.
I gave him chaos.
And he begged for it—
not once, not twice—
but every time you forgave him.
I never promised forever.
You did.
And yet here he was—
asking for more of what he shouldn’t crave.
So ask yourself,
was I the sin or the symptom?
Because from where I stood,
the cracks were already showing—
I just danced on them.
He told me stories—halves and edits, painted you as a cold house with burnt meals and bitter sighs. I believed him. Believed the man who couldn’t even tell the truth to the mirror.
The perfume he wore—mine? No. It was diluted with guilt. And when he came to me, he brought silence where affection should’ve been.
Did I win him? If you call walking beside a man whose heart homes regret and lies—victory— then perhaps I did. But it never felt like triumph. Just borrowed time on borrowed lips.
You washed his sins. I watched him repeat them. Polished shoes and ironed guilt, you made a home— I offered only escape.
I saw your name tangled in his hesitation. I noticed how he didn’t flinch when my fingers searched him, but he shivered whenever your name slipped into the silence.
Perhaps I was never gatekeeping— just unknowingly guarding a man who belonged to a story far nobler than mine.
I didn’t steal your husband.
He wandered. I opened the door.
If your vows couldn’t anchor him,
what makes you think I held the rope?
Don’t look at me like I shattered glass.
He came to me with shards in his pockets,
already bleeding, already broken—
already yours, and yet halfway gone.
He called me “escape.”
Whispered your name only when guilt cracked through the sheets.
I didn’t ask for your silence.
He offered it like dessert.
A side dish to his tired love and recycled affection.
I am not your enemy.
I am your mirror.
Reflecting what he never confessed.
While you folded his clothes,
I was untucking his truths.
He smelled of home-cooked compromise.
Tasted of half-truths and conditional loyalty.
And you? You let him come back every night
like loyalty was just habit.
Don't preach to me about morality.
He wore your love like a coat—
only when it was cold enough
to make him miss your warmth.
He told me your love was routine.
I gave him chaos.
And he begged for it—
not once, not twice—
but every time you forgave him.
I never promised forever.
You did.
And yet here he was—
asking for more of what he shouldn’t crave.
So ask yourself,
was I the sin or the symptom?
Because from where I stood,
the cracks were already showing—
I just danced on them.
