You gave me just enough to keep me hoping,
hoping that one day, all the allegations my mind has made about you wouldn't turn out to be true.
And so I waited,
I waited just enough to know that this is something I feel like I can't deal with anymore.
But I still stayed.
I stayed because no matter how many times I felt like my heart was broken into tiny pieces
I knew that you had the glue that would stick them back together.
And so I begged
I begged for the kind of love that should've come standard,
I begged for being someone's first choice
I begged..
just to feel loved.
But you held that glue in your hand high enough to make sure I could see it, but I couldn't reach it.
That hurt..
Because that's when I realized that maybe you didn't want me to have it
Maybe it was supposed to be a bait all along...
How you'd show me the slightest amount of love known to human kind and I would go head over heels for it,
How'd you'd make me believe that this time it's really a change, and this is actually getting better just for it to go back to how it was in less than a second..
I saw it all.. and I still decided it was enough to keep me hoping,
But now..?
Now I feel like I don't know what's morally right to do..
Like I have to choose between forgiving or just walking away
But instead, I'm sitting here questioning my inner self like I never wanted to hear an answer this badly before,
Do I keep hoping or do I choose myself and decide that what you showed me wasn't enough to make me stay..?

I was born with Seleouth wings.
Wings they called holy —
wrought in silvered dusk,
feathers soaked in twilight,
stitched from the mourning of a dying god.
They glittered —
so they thought I was chosen.
They glowed —
so they thought I was saved.
But I was claimed.
Not crowned.
Not blessed.
Only bound.
Each plume a chain.
Each shimmer — a wound.
They do not lift me.
They devour me.
Fly, they whisper.
Soar.
Be the miracle they want to believe in.
And so I rise, again and again —
while my bones snap beneath the weight
of their expectation.
They never see the blood in my footprints.
They never hear the cracking silence in my smile.
Wings are supposed to mean freedom.
Mine are prisons dressed in gold.
They do not love me —
they love the idea that I am unbreakable.
But I am breaking.
I have always been breaking.
They gave me a relic of heaven
and carved it into my spine
like a sigil.
Like a punishment.
They say it is beautiful.
But they never carried it.
They say I am lucky.
But they never asked if I wanted it.
I am tired of being divine.
I want to be nothing.
To fall — not in disgrace —
but in choice.
I am not your angel.
I am not your savior.
I am the one who will tear these wings
from my back with my own hands,
and bleed into the dirt
until I am real.
Let them weep for the fallen.
Let them **** me — I will not worship what kills me.
But at last,
let me stand on the earth as myself —
wingless, wretched, and finally
free.