You Weren’t A Lesson, You Were A Warning

You weren’t a lesson.

You were a warning label

I peeled off

because I wanted to believe

fire could feel like warmth.

You didn’t teach me anything

I didn’t already beg myself to ignore.

You weren’t growth—

you were rot

in the shape of love.

I called it chemistry.

It was corrosion.

Said “We’ve got history”

but it was just a timeline of

unspoken apologies

and red flags I painted white

to keep the peace.

I watered you

while I wilted.

Broke myself open

so you could bloom

and blamed the drought

on my own roots.

They told me love is patient, love is kind.

But your love

was a locked door

with a window view.

Always just enough to hope for,

never enough to hold.

I don’t owe you forgiveness.

I don’t owe you closure.

I owe myself silence

where your name used to echo.

Because I finally understand—

not every pain is a path.

Some are cliffs.

And I climbed out of you

barehanded.