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.
Through the Fog 