To My Past, “Love”

Dear You,

I laid your clothes in the bin—
the fabric rough against my palms.
“I don’t love you anymore,” I whispered,
and still, my hands trembled.

For months I scrubbed my skin raw,
trying to wash away the memory
of your touch—
the kind that bruised instead of held,
the kind that took instead of asked.

You told me it was normal.
You told me I saved you.
I was young enough to believe
that love meant surrender.

I see now how small you made me—
how silence became survival,
how I mistook fear for devotion.
When I finally left,
I carried your ghost like a scar.

But healing came slowly
in the laughter of my sisters,
the warmth of my mother’s arms,
the mirror that showed I was still whole.

And then, someone kind appeared.
He did not break me open—
he waited while I rebuilt.
His hands were gentle,
his love quiet and patient,
like sunlight touching skin.

Now, when I look back,
I don’t ache—I exhale.
Because I know the difference
between love and control,
between being wanted
and being free.

So if you ever wonder…
Yes, your name is ash now.
But I am still here,
and this time,
I finally know what love is.