Red Carpet, Then Wreckage

You arrived like sirens and sugar.
Kisses flung like confetti grenades.
Heaven poured out of your mouth — I swallowed it.
Didn’t taste the fuse.

You wrote my name on the sky and forgot it by morning.
You said I was fate, then fed me fiction.
You called me soulmate before learning my middle name.
Every compliment had teeth tucked in.
You promised forever before I’d finished my sentence.

When I pulled back, you called it betrayal.
Said I changed.
Said I was cold.
You weren’t loving me — you were staging a worship service and I was the altar, bleeding out while you practiced your lines.

Love shouldn’t need me to bleed to prove it.
But I kept offering skin like it was currency.
Kept calling the fire “warmth.”
Kept calling the crash “connection.”

Because the rush?
It was holy.
It rewired my brain.
Turned me into a praise addict.
A good girl for dopamine.

You said I was magic — and now silence feels like exile.
Now when someone texts me back, I brace for impact.
I flinch at kindness.
I scan every silence for the monster you taught me to expect.
I crave the crash more than I miss the ride.

Normal feels like starvation.
You taught me to need obsession to feel seen.
Now when love comes slow, I think it’s broken.
You turned romance into wreckage, and I’m the one left trying to name every broken bone you kissed before snapping.

I used to think I was loved.
Now I know — I was hunted with velvet bullets.
And I’m still unlearning how not to run when someone stays.