I built a home within my heart, a place for love to grow, but you came in with hollow hands, a warmth I didn’t know. You spoke in silver-threaded lies, wrapped whispers in disguise, and I, so blind with hope and trust, saw only lover’s eyes. Each promise dripped like honeyed gold, but turned to rusted chains, each touch, a ghost of what I thought, was love—but left me drained. You carved your name beneath my ribs, then left me torn, alone, a stranger in a story where I thought I'd found my own. But grief will shape a sharper soul, a fire will forge me whole, for though you stole the breath from me, you never touched my soul. One day, the echoes of your name will fade into the dust, and I will rise with steady hands— not broken, just reborn from us. — Tanya’s Strength, Not His Scars