Breaking the Story You Wrote for Me

You look at me like I’m the failure—
angry, disappointed, unmet.

I’m sorry
I’m not the girl you imagined
you could bend,
break,
reshape into something easier to love.

I’m sorry
I don’t know how to hurt you
the way you seem to need—
the way you call love.

You pick at me
with hands full of your own fractures,
blaming me for wounds
you carved yourself.

You carry resentment
like I packed it for you,
like I asked to be the weight
you refuse to put down.

Tell me—
am I supposed to stay quiet?
Swallow every sharp word,
every accusation,
every version of me
you invent to justify your anger?

Am I meant to feel nothing,
say nothing,
be nothing
but what you can control?

I’m sorry
I’m not who you dreamed I was—

but you never were
the man you promised me either.