~saint, sinner, syringe.

i played crucifix and confession booth, all in the stretch of a tuesday night,

stood so still i forgot how to flee, forgot that devotion isn't always aligned with what's right.

i wore his moods like shifting seasons, planted myself in his winters just to see him bloom,

and he thanked me like a florist does the soil, never asking if i minded being the tomb.

he was the match, i was the page. 

set alight again and again just to prove he could write,

and each time i burned, they called it poetry, not noticing that i never once came out bright.

he told me i was wise, and calm, and brave

as if those weren’t symptoms of restraint i’d been taught to crave,

as if every smile wasn’t hiding a swallowed scream, and every silence wasn’t a trade.

he asked for nothing and still i gave him everything, no receipt, no pause, no tax,

let him pour his aches into me like sewage down a pipe, never asking if the plumbing cracks,

because he’d smile, and i’d rewrite physics just to keep that curve from fading,

he’d sigh, and i’d harvest the wind, bottle the air, just in case he needed saving.

you don’t get it, this wasn’t a crush, this wasn’t poems and petals and playlists on cue,

this was famine disguised as feast, this was feeding him parts of me he never even knew.

he said i deserved the world and never stayed to hand it over,

he wanted me clean, happy, distant. meanwhile i was bleeding under his leftovers like a lover.

he’s a good man, i know that. i whisper it like a line i memorized for court.

but good men still cause harm when they forget that a woman’s strength is not a sport.

he’s a good man, i know that. god’s favorite, someone mothers point to with pride,

but even gods destroy their devotees when they drink from cups already emptied dry.

and yes, i left.

but let the record show i walked out with my mouth sewn shut,

loyalty pressed to my chest like scripture. too sacred to cut.

he didn’t fight, just nodded like i was a poem he'd never finish,

and let me pass.

i memorized his eyes like hymns passed down by grandmothers who never got to speak,

learned when to be quiet, when to laugh, when to disappear for a week.

i used to count the times he said thank you, like proof that i wasn’t being drained for free,

but even gratitude feels cruel when it’s handed out like coins to someone kneeling on one knee.

i wanted to scream, to break plates, to set the house on fire,

wanted to ask him to not praise me, but need me like thirst, like desire.

but i didn't.

because if i ever broke the script, i’d become the sinner.

the girl who left a good man for daring to ask for more than dinner.

so here i am now,

months later, still checking my pulse in places he once stood, 

still lying to anyone who asks how

saying "we drifted" instead of "i imploded,"

saying "it’s mutual" when really i overdosed on him and he never even noticed i eroded.

don’t teach me how to heal if healing means unloving him,

don’t cleanse the wound if it means forgetting how deep he’s been within.

some ruins deserve to remain. some altars weren’t built to be clean.

i’d rather limp in his name than ever walk pristine.

he was the saint. he was the syringe.

he numbed me when i needed fire, and i let it happen without a flinch.

he never lied. he never broke me.

he just stood in the doorway while i gave and gave and woke up empty.

he was the saint. untouched, beloved, forgiven before he could sin.

and i? i was the sinner. offering blood in crystal jars just to be let in.

he was the calm. i was the crawl. he was the moon. i was the flame.

and love?

love was the syringe i filled with my own ruin,

injected in his name.