Too Good To Be True

At the beginning, he was the one,

every gesture carved in gold.

His words were petals soft as roses,

his promises warm as the sun’s hold.

He painted forever with his smile,

a fairytale wrapped in silk and light.

His touch was steady,

his presence strong,

a love that felt unbreakable,

untouchable,

mine.

At least, that is what I thought.

I thought it was perfect.

I thought I had found my missing piece,

my long-awaited happy ending.

I thought I was chosen.

Special.

Safe.

But shadows slip through cracks,

and cracks began to show.

The roses he gave me had thorns,

sharp, hidden beneath the bloom.

His colours bled beneath the surface,

darker than I dared to know.

The smile became a mask,

the tenderness an act.

What once felt like shelter

tightened like a noose.

Each gift was a chain,

each word a thread,

weaving me into his web.

What I thought was love

was only a cage.

Not devotion,

but possession.

Not adoration,

but control.

I was prey.

He, the hunter.

I, the story he told himself

to pass the time.

He made me believe I was treasured,

but I was only consumed.

He was using me,

never loving me.

And when the truth broke open,

the echoes of his promises

sounded like ghosts in my chest.

The roses turned to ash.

The fairytale dissolved,

and all that remained

was me.