My love—
it was fed upon.

My energy devoured,
feasted on as if it were endless,
as if I wouldn’t notice
my life draining from me.

Patience mistaken
for weakness,
understanding
treated as fuel.

What was called being seen
really meant
being supplied.

Warmth offered,
coldness returned.
Care given,
crumbs received,
yet called a banquet
until scarcity sounded like romance.
Promising eternity,
while sharpening the blade
that would end it.

Each call for balance,
met with hostility—
fangs fully bared—
as if reciprocity
were an antiquated language
never learned.

I was not broken.
I was drained.
There’s a difference.

And now the anger rises—
now that my blood is restored—
not for taking,
but for taking,
without ever intending
to give.

–The Nonconformist