I’m Not the Villain

I’m done being the monster in a story

I never wrote.

I’m done carrying the weight

of every broken thing

like it cracked because I breathed wrong.

I’m not the villain

just because I’m tired.

Just because I bleed quietly.

Just because I stopped pretending

the hurt was “character building.”

I’m not the reason people leave—

they just didn’t want to stay

in a world that didn’t revolve around them.

They called my pain “too much”

because it couldn’t be fixed

with a hug or a quote or a Bible verse.

I’m not the poison.

I’m the aftermath.

The proof that someone else’s damage

landed on me first.

I am not cold—

I just learned the hard way

that warmth gets taken from people like me

without anyone noticing the theft.

So no—

I’m not the villain.

I’m the one who crawled through the ashes,

patched the wounds myself,

and still got blamed

for starting the fire.

If that makes me hard,

if that makes me bitter,

if that makes me “difficult”—

Then good.

Let the ones who broke me

choke on their version of the story.

I’m done apologizing

for surviving a war they never saw.