No more (spoken word)

I was a fool. A damn fool. For loving you again— after everything. After the lies. The silence. The way you watched me fall apart and didn’t flinch. Not once. Not twice. But over and over and over again. And still— I stayed. Still aching. Still hoping you’d finally see me. I handed you the knife with shaking hands, pointed right at my chest, saying— “Please… not this time.” But you always did. You cut me. Deep. Every time. And called it love. But it wasn’t. It never was. I gave. You took. I bent. You broke. And still— I kept calling it something beautiful. Like I didn’t know the difference between comfort and cruelty. But I do now. Because this— this isn’t love. It’s me bleeding in silence, calling it “hope.” And I’m done. Done waiting. Done shrinking. Done pretending this is anything but pain with pretty excuses. I’m pulling the knife out myself. I’m closing the door. No more begging. No more chances. No more you. No. More.