She Ruined Me, Deeper <SIMPLE>

So here I am. A ruin that still stands. A building with no inside left. A heart that learned to beat in her rhythm and forgot how to make its own.

It is written as a —raw, psychological, and visceral. She Ruined Me, Deeper They tell you ruin is a crash. A single, shattering moment. Glass on pavement.

Betrayal is an event. You can survive an event. You can point to it on a calendar. “There. That’s where she did it.” No. What she did has no date. It has a texture. It tastes like the inside of my own mouth at 3 a.m. when I haven’t slept in two days. she ruined me, deeper

I can’t even hate her. That’s the ruin. Hate would be clean. Hate would be a knife. This is a disease. I still want her to text me. I still check my phone when a specific notification sound goes off. I still, for one sick half-second, believe it might be her. That’s the ruin. Not that she left. That she left a ghost of herself inside my nervous system.

She ruined me deeper than pain.

Not because I’m weak. Because for a while—for one long, burning, beautiful while—the ruin felt like flying. And now that I’m on the ground, I know the truth.

The deepest part is this: I’d let her do it again. So here I am

She didn’t break me. She unmade me. Thread by thread. Hour by hour.