I’m Tired of Bleeding for Lessons I am done pretending that the same wounds don’t keep reopening. People walk in, take what’s warm, leave the cold, and somehow I’m the one left apologizing for freezing. I’m tired of being the soft place where other people land after they’ve broken something. Tired of stitching myself up with hope just to be torn open by the next almost-love that swears it’s different. How many times am I supposed to rise from the same damn ashes before I’m allowed to admit I’m burning out? Some nights, I’m furious at the universe for dangling the idea of “my person” like a prize I’m too bruised to reach. I’m angry at every goodbye that pretended to be fate, every promise that cracked the moment I touched it. And underneath all that rage is the fear I hate the most— that maybe I’m meant to be the lesson, not the love. The stepping stone, not the destination. But even in anger, I refuse to disappear. I refuse to let the world decide that I’m unlovable just because the wrong people kept choosing to leave. If my person is out there, they’d better be worth every scar I’ve had to earn just to survive long enough to meet them.