Maybe It’s My Fault

Maybe it’s my fault

for not giving you

enough attention.

Maybe love is measured

in minutes I missed,

in texts I didn’t send fast enough,

in the quiet times

I needed for myself

that you heard as absence.

Maybe if I had been

softer,

quieter,

smaller—

you wouldn’t have felt

so far away.

I’ve turned this question

over and over

in my hands,

like something sharp

I keep choosing

to hold.

Because blame

is easier to carry

than truth.

Truth asks harder things—

like whether love

should require

my constant proving.

Like whether care

should feel

like a test

I’m always failing.

Maybe I did miss moments.

Maybe I wasn’t perfect.

Maybe I couldn’t give

everything

you wanted.

But love

isn’t supposed

to be starvation

for one person

and sacrifice

for the other.

Love should survive

ordinary silence.

It should breathe

without permission.

It should not crumble

the moment

I turn inward

to find myself.

So maybe

it isn’t my fault

after all.

Maybe the truth

is quieter

and harder

to accept—

that I was trying

to love you

with a whole heart

while slowly

forgetting

to love myself.

And maybe healing

begins

the moment

I stop asking

what I did wrong

and start asking

why I believed

I had to disappear

to be loved.