No Love, Just Lessons

I never stopped calling it love—

even when it started repeating itself:

same wounds, same hands,

same ending wearing a new excuse.

The worst part: I knew better.

I knew the difference

between someone choosing me

and someone not leaving yet,

but I kept translating rejection

into something holy.

You said enough

to keep the door cracked,

never enough to let me walk through.

And I stood there—

naming the porch home.

I called it love

when it was really habit,

depth when it was damage.

There were signs:

the night you filled your house

with everything you desired

and I wasn’t any of it;

the way you couldn’t say love,

like it was too heavy

for your lips.

I carried it for both of us.

But it wasn’t love—

just lessons,

and I kept repeating

what kept undoing me.

I wish I could say

I learned quickly,

that clarity came like lightning—

a sudden flash.

But it was slower than that,

quieter, more devastating.

It sounded like my own voice

breaking character,

asking:

why do you keep calling this love?

My own voice answered:

love is the most beautiful language,

the only one I want to hear.

I tried to become fluent

in something that never spoke back,

kept saying love over and over.

No love—

just lessons.

And me,

mispronouncing both.