Confession: I Wanted You to Break Me First

In loving you, I craved the fall—
as if being destroyed by you would prove it was real.

I wanted you to break me first,
because if you broke me,
it would mean you cared enough to try.
If you destroyed me,
it would mean I mattered enough to destroy.

I wanted the pain,
the heartbreak,
the devastation,
because pain felt like proof—
proof that it was real,
proof that it mattered,
proof that I was worth breaking.

I wanted you to hurt me
so I could feel something,
so I could know it was real,
so I could have evidence of your impact.

I wanted you to break me first
because I was already broken,
and I thought if you did it,
at least I'd know who to blame.

But you didn't break me.
You just left.
And that was worse.

Because now I'm broken,
but I don't know who broke me.
I don't know if it was you,
or me,
or the space between us.

I wanted you to break me first
because I thought destruction was love,
because I thought pain was passion,
because I thought being broken was being alive.

But it wasn't.
It was just pain.
Just emptiness.
Just the hollow echo of what never was.

So here's my confession:
I wanted you to break me first,
because I thought it would prove
that what we had was real.

But the truth is,
real love doesn't break you.
Real love doesn't destroy you.
Real love builds you up.

And maybe that's why I wanted you to break me—
because what we had wasn't real,
and I needed the pain to prove it was something.

I wanted you to break me first,
but you just left.
And leaving broke me more
than anything you could have done.