Sweet Things That Hurt...

"Because he said it Softly, I believed it wouldn't bleed."

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He came with charisma slicked in charm. The kind that studies your every word not to understand you—but

to echo you back to yourself, prettier. He told me I was rare, divine, different. And for a moment, I believed it. Believed him.

But here’s what they don’t tell you about the narcissistic lover:

They don’t want you healed.

They want you hollow enough to echo.

Every compliment he gave was a leash.

Every touch, a negotiation.

And when I finally stopped mirroring his needs—when I dared to reflect my own—he called me selfish. Difficult. Dramatic.

Truth is, I almost disappeared trying to keep the love I thought I’d earned. But it wasn’t love. It was worship

twisted into worth. Affection dressed up as control. A spotlight that burned instead of warmed.

Narcissistic love doesn’t break you all at once. It erodes.

A skipped call here. A flinch at your laughter. A kiss that tastes like silence.

By the time you realize you’re starving, he’s already feasting on someone new.

Already telling her how soft you used to be.

But this is not a mourning.

This is a reckoning.

In this space—my space—I name what he would never let me speak aloud:

That love should not require erasure.

That I am not an accessory.

That I am whole—cracked, shining, and mine.

xoxo, S.