I know you’ll never forgive me for walking away, but you don’t see the truth— I’ve been gone for years, a ghost scattering slivers of myself like shattered glass in every room I ever dared to live in. You love the silhouette— the outline of a girl who never bled, the surface polished smooth, the smile stitched onto a dying thing. But the real me? She fractured long ago. I broke that mirror years back, the one you swear still hangs clean and perfect. I spent seasons on the floor, picking up pieces with trembling hands, gluing myself together in silence until, from a distance, I almost looked whole again— shiny, pretty, a reflection you could love. But step closer and you’ll see the cracks spiderwebbing through me, every line a memory of the break. Touch me, really touch me, and you’ll bleed for it— because some truths cut no matter how carefully you press your fingers. So go ahead, say you’ll love me forever. But forever is a room I can’t walk into without collapsing. And when I whisper, “No… you love who you think I am,” what I really mean is: I wish that version of me actually existed— the mirror unbroken, the glass unscarred, the girl unhurt. But she never did. You’re only loving the light glinting off the cracks.