Me.

uhm..love?

There’s this thing they say about love, like it’s supposed to be this clean, perfect thing.
Like you meet someone, and the world just clicks.
Like the pieces fall into place, like you were made for each other. It will fix you and make you
But love is more than that at times.

Love is ugly.
Love is messy.
Love is the kind of thing that grips your soul with its claws and doesn’t let go, even when it breaks you.
And god, does it break you.

I loved like I was running out of time.
Like every second, every word, every touch could be the last.
I gave everything.
Every piece of me.
Every part of me that I thought was too broken to share, I gave it.
I loved without hesitation, without fear, without doubt.
I loved like it was the only thing that mattered in the world, and for a while, it was.

But love doesn’t always give back what it takes.
And when it doesn’t, you’re left with a hollow ache that doesn’t go away.
It’s not just the quiet mornings, or the empty nights, or the slow fade of affection.
It’s the parts of yourself you lose along the way, the parts you didn’t even realize were gone until you try to reach for them again.

It’s the days you wake up and feel like you’re drowning, even though you’re breathing.
It’s the moments when your chest is so tight, you can’t even remember what it felt like to breathe freely.
It’s the nights you can’t sleep because your mind is spinning, replaying every word, every look, every moment where it all went wrong.
Wondering if it was you.
Wondering if you were too much, or not enough.
Wondering if you even mattered at all.

And that hurt–-fuck, it hurt.
It’s the kind of pain that claws at your chest, that makes your throat tight and your eyes burn.
It’s the kind of pain that makes you feel like you’re coming apart, like you’re not sure if you’ll ever feel whole again.

But here's the thing
I don’t regret it.
Not a single second of it.

Because even through all the pain, all the mess, all the broken pieces I had to pick up from the floor
There was something real.
Something deep and raw and human.
I loved with everything I had, and that love, that feeling, that fire—it was worth every ounce of pain. I was real

I would rather have loved with everything I had, even if it meant I’d end up with a piece of myself missing, than to have never loved at all.

I’m not ashamed of it.
I’m not ashamed of loving fiercely, even if it didn’t last.
I’m not ashamed of the parts of me that are still scarred, still raw, still healing.
Because that means I felt.

And yeah, it hurts. It hurts like hell.
But what hurts more is not feeling anything at all.
What hurts more is shutting yourself off, locking yourself away, convincing yourself that you’re better off alone.

I loved.
I hurt.
I bled.
And I’m still here.

I’m still breathing.
Still living.
Still loving.

And that’s enough, that’s what makes me—me.