I was weak.
That’s the truth I’m trying to swallow.
Not proud—never proud.
Just... hollow.
It wasn’t love.
It wasn’t joy.
It was me, trying to outrun the man I failed to become for you.

Her perfume didn’t enchant me—it distracted me.
Her laugh didn’t move me—it made me forget the silence I created between us.
You were there every night—polishing shoes, folding shirts, But I looked at comfort and called it routine.
I mistook loyalty for obligation.
And when I felt small, I found a way to feel wanted again—cheaply, recklessly.

Yes, it was weakness.
Not temptation.
There were no fireworks.
Just a flicker in the dark and the sound of me closing the door behind your back.
I regret it—every mark she left And every trace I brought home to unravel you.
You didn’t deserve to feel second to anyone. Ever.

But here I stand, not asking for forgiveness— Just owning the wreckage and calling it mine.