She Studied My Scars

She never wanted me, not truly, not whole— She traced my wounds to measure the soul. Not with care, not with grace, But to find the weakest place. She saw the ash from loves before, And wondered what more pain was stored. Not to heal, not to stay— Just to break me a different way. She wore softness like disguise, But her heart held sharpened lies. Each word, a scalpel. Each smile, a test. To see where I was weakest. To undo the rest. But I saw through it—eventually. Her love was curiosity, cruelly. She didn’t crave connection or trust, Just wanted to watch me turn to dust. But I’m still here. Still breathing. Still flame. She played her game—but I changed the name. Now I know: love doesn’t wear knives in its grin. And I’ll never let her kind back in.