𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘉𝘪𝘳𝘥 𝘞𝘩𝘰 𝘙𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘏𝘰𝘮𝘦
I don’t want to pretend anymore— Not that I wrote poems of life and love when I met you, Not that my words were born from truth, When they were really born from wanting you to look at me with softer eyes. I pretended because I hoped you'd be impressed. I pretended because I wanted you to like me. And deep down, I knew— you were pretending too. Your stories, strung together with imagination, half-truths, and stories that dressed themselves as tenderness. Yet I believed you. Of course I did. I was an innocent little bird then, one desperate to fly— far from the storms she lived with, far from a past she never chose, far from the weight she carried alone. But that dove has returned home now— older, steadier, softer in wiser ways. She knows what was dream and what was real. And she is building her own nest— twig by twig, truth by truth— filled with dreams she isn’t ashamed of, feelings she finally honours, aspirations that carry her forward. There is warmth here. ...
