She Ruined — Me, Deeper High Quality

The deepest part is this: I’d let her do it again.

And I don’t know how to build a new god out of these ashes.

She ruined me at the level of meaning .

I can’t even hate her. That’s the ruin. Hate would be clean. Hate would be a knife. This is a disease. I still want her to text me. I still check my phone when a specific notification sound goes off. I still, for one sick half-second, believe it might be her. That’s the ruin. Not that she left. That she left a ghost of herself inside my nervous system.

Betrayal is an event. You can survive an event. You can point to it on a calendar. “There. That’s where she did it.” No. What she did has no date. It has a texture. It tastes like the inside of my own mouth at 3 a.m. when I haven’t slept in two days. she ruined me, deeper

Before her, I had edges. I knew where I ended and the world began. Now? Everything bleeds. A certain song. A street corner. A perfume in an elevator. And suddenly I’m not a person anymore. I’m just a wound with a pulse.

She didn’t ruin me by leaving.

So here I am. A ruin that still stands. A building with no inside left. A heart that learned to beat in her rhythm and forgot how to make its own.