Ruins of What They Took From Me

You took everything and never looked back—

my trust, my softness, the parts of me

that I thought I could give away

without losing myself.

I let you in,

let you carve your name into my skin

as if I wasn't already whole,

as if I needed the weight of you

to make me real.

But you left me broken,

left me with only the ruins of what was

and the ghost of who I used to be,

the me before you touched me

with promises I could never hold onto.

I still remember the warmth of your words,

the way they wrapped around me

like a comfort I couldn't escape,

but now they feel like poison—

slow, steady, and burning away what's left of me.

You took my love and turned it into something

I could never recognize—

twisted it, crushed it,

like the wreckage of a dream I thought would save me.

Now, I walk through the remains,

searching for the pieces of myself

that you left behind,

but all I find is dust,

the fragments of a person

I used to be, before you made me forget

what it was like to be whole.

The ruins are all that's left—

and even though I try to rebuild,

each brick crumbles beneath my hands.

I wonder if I'll ever find what's mine again,

or if this emptiness will be my home forever,

the one you built when you took everything

and left me with nothing but the ruins

of what they took from me.