He didn’t just take a night.
He took the ground from under me,
left cracks in places no one sees,
turned certainty to debris.
I wake carrying the weight of it,
the sense that something vital slipped -
like he reached into the centre of me
and shattered what he'd gripped.
Now every morning is a negotiation
with a world that feels too bright,
a world that carries on untouched
by the ruin of that night.
I move through days as if borrowed,
a version of myself left wafer thin.
My thoughts come back with splinters,
pain lodged beneath my skin.
It feels like he stole everything -
my safety, my trust, my ease.
He left me with the bitter sense
of falling to my knees
in a place no one else can see,
a place I never chose to be.