Vic

Waiting on a sorry

But you're never sorry, are you?

No, you don't even care

How can you stand and watch while I'm

Breakin' all my bones, tryin' to hold you close

Cut my heart right out my body

Tearing off my skin, just to let you in

Isn't it a bit unethical?

Got me on my knees, have you any mercy?

Every time you hurt me, baby

Tell me, have I not given you enough?

Some people build walls against the tide. I keep walking into it.

Every current carries a different wound. Splintered hulls. Waterlogged prayers. Stories stitched together with old scars. I gather them like treasures pulled from the deep, holding them to the light, tracing every crack as if understanding it might make it whole.

Maybe that’s what draws me back. Not the promise of calm water, but the storm itself. The collision. The ache. The brief warmth of finding another soul drifting through the dark and believing, for a moment, that neither of us has to drown alone.

Love has always felt less like a choice and more like a gravity. It pulls at everything. Strangers. Lovers. Passing faces. Entire lives I will never live. I feel them all pressing against my ribs.

It’s exhausting.

It’s beautiful.

The same hand that offers shelter also leaves splinters beneath the skin.

There are days I think peace must exist somewhere beyond the tide. A quiet shore untouched by longing. No hunger. No loss. No waiting. But every version of that peace feels empty. A room with no windows. Air that never moves.

The only escape is sound

For a few minutes, a voice pours itself through a speaker and suddenly every buried thing has a language. Every wound becomes visible. Every ghost sits beside me. Nothing feels distant. Nothing feels imagined.

I love too much for my own good.

I love what breaks people. I love what survives them.

And that is the problem.

Because while part of me reaches for everyone, another part is always staring toward the next horizon, searching for another lighthouse in the fog.

I tell myself I’m looking for home.

I’ve tried to feel the same again.

Tried to love the way I used to, to open myself like before. But it’s different now.

Numb, maybe. Guarded, definitely.

your fault?

Or did I do it to myself?

I don’t know.

All I know is that after you, love feels heavier.

It feels riskier.

Maybe I’m scared.

I let them diminish me. Let them tell me I wasn’t enough. That I didn’t do enough. Even though I gave everything I had—everything. And still, I stayed. Because I thought that was love. To love without conditions, to endure. To believe love was worth any cost.

But something in me has changed. There’s a fracture now. A shift in the way I love, in the way I exist in connection. The part of me that once loved endlessly, that version of me feels so far away now. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel that kind of love again—the reckless, wholehearted kind. I thought it was pure. But looking back, I see the truth: I was painting over the cracks, sugarcoating the neglect, dressing up the harm as passion.

Was it love? Yes, it was. But it wasn’t good for me. I loved despite the bad, because I didn’t know how to stop. I kept choosing love over myself.

Not anymore.

I can still love—but I do it differently now. With eyes wide open, with boundaries I never had before. And yes, part of me misses the way love once felt. There’s a grief in that. A mourning for the innocence I lost. But I’ve made peace with it. I expect disappointment now, and somehow, that makes me stronger—not bitter, just prepared. I know how to survive it.

Parts of my life have improved, sure—but at what cost? Empathy, softness, the capacity to self-sacrifice without hesitation. I still have those qualities, but not in the same abundance. They’re rationed now. Protected. I don’t know if that makes me wiser or just… detached. Maybe both.

It’s strange—to be so emotionally aware and yet so quick to disengage when I sense danger. When love starts to feel like a trap again, I pull away. I have to. I won’t let anyone break me like that again.