I don’t forgive you,
and I don’t wish you well.
Not out of pride,
but because I’ve learned peace
without handing you the gift of my grace.
I moved on without letting you off the hook.
Not everyone earns closure,
or softness,
or the mercy of being seen as gentle
when they were anything but.
You wrecked me,
then walked away
as if it were ordinary—
as if love is meant to leave bruises,
as if I should be the one
patching the holes you carved in me.
But I am done carrying the timber and guilt
for a bridge you never cared to cross.
No, I don’t forgive you.
I outgrew you.
I outlived the version of me
who waited for an apology
you were never brave enough to give.
I don’t cradle hope anymore—
hope that you’ll return,
that one day you’ll change,
that it ever meant more to you
than convenience.
I’ve found peace in knowing
you were a lesson—
a bitter, unearned wound
I survived anyway.
And that's enough.
