I had already lost him, long before he left.

It only got worse every time we tried again.

I feel like,
we built our first heartbreak through repeated hurt and unspoken expectations.
We kept trying to hold onto something that had already changed.
But maybe, deep down, I was trying to keep us so I wouldn't have to face myself.
I didn't know that the longer it dragged on, the more it wore us thin.

It was like tying a frayed rope,
only to pull it tighter until it snapped,
and then tying it again, and again,
until there was nothing left but thread.

The pain piled up, until we both gave up.
Maybe even love couldn’t find its way back in.

And somewhere in that loss,
I lost myself even more.

I began to believe I was unlovable.
That I was incapable.
That I wasn’t built for it.
That I wasn’t enough,
and would never be worthy.

I hated myself for breaking.
Then I hated myself more
for not being able to stand up again.
I hated myself for everything I tried, and I couldn’t.

My chest ached,
my breath shallow,
my head spinning,
my ears ringing,
day after day after day.

I was completely, physically, mentally devastated.

And when it all came crashing down,
I started giving up on myself, too.