🥀

To the man who kept picking flowers instead of planting them—

I was solid. I was loyal. I showed up with both hands open while you kept one behind your back.

I shared everything. You took what you wanted and called it love.

You searched my phone like a detective while building your own escape routes. You called it protection. I called it what it was.

Every time we ended, you sprinted toward the first warmth that would have you—not because you wanted her, but because you couldn't stand to feel the cold alone.

You're not broken. You're not stupid. You're not the version of yourself that the meth wants you to be.

But you are afraid. And that fear makes you a thief—of trust, of time, of women who deserved better than to be your proof that you're still wanted.

Any man can pick a flower. A real one stays to water it. Watches it bloom. Gets his hands dirty in the waiting.

I wanted to be your garden. You wanted a bouquet.

I hope you learn the difference before it's too late.

— K