It wasn’t real, that connection you held up like something rare. It was only your restless emptiness reaching outward, never inward where truth lived. There was something in you, a rare kind of wrongness, not loud, but steady, growing in the quiet corners You refused to clean. Your habits sank deep, roots of neglect and excuse, feeding on your comfort, tightening around any chance of becoming better. Inside your chest, something lingered, not wounded, but slowly rotting from everything you chose not to face. Your words carried weight, but not wisdom, dirty with judgment, falling on others as if they owed you effort You would never give yourself. You dreamed wildly, expected greatly, Yet moved nowhere. Laziness sat in you like spring, fresh, alive, growing stronger each day You chose not to change. And so you became a tree, Not shaped by storms, but by stillness. Not broken, but unused. A tree that stands alone, roots deep in wasted time, branches stretched with empty wants, leaves gree...
The master of pretence,
You called him your lover.
He moved through your heart
like a grandmaster over polished squares,
measuring silence,
calculating weakness,
seeing not you,
but position.
You were never a queen in his kingdom,
never the fierce diagonal of power.
You were a pawn,
advanced when useful,
sacrificed when convenient,
praised only when it served his endgame.
His smile was strategic.
His touch, a tactic.
Even his apologies
were rehearsed openings
designed to keep you in play.
And you,
you mistook the game for destiny.
You called manipulation a mystery,
called red flags roses,
called his absence depth.
Wake up from this velvet slumber.
The board was never sacred.
It was staged.
Cheating runs in his veins
like inherited instinct,
deception in his bloodstream,
betrayal of his pulse.
He does not stumble into lies;
He breathes them.
Real love does not exist
in his constructed world.
There, affection is currency,
loyalty is leverage,
and hearts are trophies
arranged on invisible shelves.
But you are not carved wood.
You are not confined to squares.
Step off the board.
Let him play alone
with his hollow victories,
crowning himself king
over a kingdom
made entirely of mirrors.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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