sleazyyyy
Warmer when the kitsch of rot hits the stomach
- May 10, 2026
- 16
I can't, for the love of God, keep carrying this grief like it was sewn into my skin. I just want to disappear. I wanted so badly to become better, softer, stronger — but life kept grinding me beneath its heel until I began to feel lower than a shackled animal locked in a cage.
I had an ex-boyfriend, and I know now that I revolved around him the way planets revolve around dying stars. He was not simply someone I loved; my mind made him into oxygen itself. Three years beside him turned his voice into home, his touch into gravity. Being away from him felt like suffocating slowly, while being near him felt like resurrection.
And then, five days ago, I learned that for five months, while I was loving him with my whole soul, he had been giving pieces of himself to someone else. I begged him to stop. God, I begged. But while I was crying for him to choose me, he was texting her, telling her he loved her, building tenderness in another woman's hands while I was still trying to keep ours alive. Learning the truth felt less like heartbreak and more like being skinned alive while still breathing.
The betrayal was not just infidelity. It was the complete destruction of the world I built around him. I trusted him with the rawest parts of me, and he lied so effortlessly it made me question whether any of it had ever been real. And the cruelest part? When I told the other girl the truth — when she learned he had shared a bed and a life with me for three years — she still could not let him go. Five months were enough for her to love him more fiercely than I could survive.
I had to beg her to block him. I had to beg him to show me even the smallest scrap of kindness. I shrank myself down into something humiliating and desperate, crawling toward people who had already chosen to wound me.
And still, somehow, it became uglier.
He lied to his family. Told them I hurt him. Told them I stabbed him with a ballpen. Told them I cheated first and that this was only revenge. He rewrote me into a monster so he would never have to face the ruin he caused.
I feel so unbearably small. I loved him with everything I had — every nerve, every prayer, every shattered little piece of devotion I could pull from myself. I bent my body and soul into impossible shapes just to keep him happy, just to keep him staying, just to be enough. And after all of that, I was still replaceable.
What kind of love makes someone beg for crumbs like a starving animal?
How is it fair that the person who understood me more deeply than anyone else could carve through me as if my heart were nothing at all?
And why, after he destroyed my world, is he still the only person I run to when it hurts?
I had an ex-boyfriend, and I know now that I revolved around him the way planets revolve around dying stars. He was not simply someone I loved; my mind made him into oxygen itself. Three years beside him turned his voice into home, his touch into gravity. Being away from him felt like suffocating slowly, while being near him felt like resurrection.
And then, five days ago, I learned that for five months, while I was loving him with my whole soul, he had been giving pieces of himself to someone else. I begged him to stop. God, I begged. But while I was crying for him to choose me, he was texting her, telling her he loved her, building tenderness in another woman's hands while I was still trying to keep ours alive. Learning the truth felt less like heartbreak and more like being skinned alive while still breathing.
The betrayal was not just infidelity. It was the complete destruction of the world I built around him. I trusted him with the rawest parts of me, and he lied so effortlessly it made me question whether any of it had ever been real. And the cruelest part? When I told the other girl the truth — when she learned he had shared a bed and a life with me for three years — she still could not let him go. Five months were enough for her to love him more fiercely than I could survive.
I had to beg her to block him. I had to beg him to show me even the smallest scrap of kindness. I shrank myself down into something humiliating and desperate, crawling toward people who had already chosen to wound me.
And still, somehow, it became uglier.
He lied to his family. Told them I hurt him. Told them I stabbed him with a ballpen. Told them I cheated first and that this was only revenge. He rewrote me into a monster so he would never have to face the ruin he caused.
I feel so unbearably small. I loved him with everything I had — every nerve, every prayer, every shattered little piece of devotion I could pull from myself. I bent my body and soul into impossible shapes just to keep him happy, just to keep him staying, just to be enough. And after all of that, I was still replaceable.
What kind of love makes someone beg for crumbs like a starving animal?
How is it fair that the person who understood me more deeply than anyone else could carve through me as if my heart were nothing at all?
And why, after he destroyed my world, is he still the only person I run to when it hurts?
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