The Actress

Only the blood was real.

I know who you are now.

Do not mistake my love for weakness.
It was a gift—unseen, rare, and sincere.
And you treated it like something disposable.

You once said:

“You are crazy for telling me I love you so much.”

That sentence didn’t just hurt me.
It broke my trust in you—because it revealed the truth:

You could speak like love, and punish for believing you.

I’ll say it plainly:
you never loved me. You knew how to look like love.

You are a professional actress—
so you were better at it than most.
Not on a stage. In private.

Here is what is real:

There was a man in your life you still kept close—
separated for years, still “friends,” still tethered.
And while I was with you, he didn’t know I existed.

I remember what I gave you anyway—
when your world was small,
when your mother passed,
when your confidence was gone,
when you needed a shoulder,
I showed up.

I wasn’t perfect. I carried my own history into us, and I tried to be honest about it.
But you would not be honest about yours.
You would not name what was breaking you—
even as your choices kept breaking the people who trusted you.

And when your life looked “put back together,” you disappeared.
After patience. After loyalty. After kindness.
I became nothing to you.

You discarded my love.
You mistook my sensitivity for weakness.
You left me when I needed truth—
and you did it with silence.

You moved on.
Whether it began before the end or immediately after, the message was the same:
I was replaceable to you.

I still hold the pieces you let me see—
as sacred—
in my heart.

The most humiliating truth is that early on, you made me feel a kind of love I had never felt before.
Maybe it was real for a moment.
Maybe it was only convincing.
Either way, I paid for it with years.

So I will end with this:

You mistook devotion for permission—
and you sliced it open,
then watched me bleed
and never looked back.

Take your talent back to your work.
Stop using it on people who love you.