No more cry

NO MORE CRY

If anyone asks,

I’ll just say we grew apart.

And I won’t care whether they believe it or not.

They weren’t there.

They didn’t see the slow burn, the quiet breaking.

When your memory claws at my chest, I’ll smile through it.

Pretend I’m fine.

Act like I’m not bleeding inside.

Because honestly?

I’m tired of breaking for someone who’s already moved on.

So yeah— No more cry.

No more self-torture dressed as loyalty.

What I’ve been doing to myself—it’s not grief, it’s slow suicide.

This sadness I carry around like a blanket?

Heavy. 

Suffocating. 

Poisonous.

And I’m done letting it sink into my skin.

I’m done grieving for someone who didn’t grieve for me.

Done lying in bed for days like a ghost.

Done starving myself like pain makes me holy.

Done letting silence win.

Because if he can move on that fast— Have a baby girl, find “the one,” start his shiny new life— Then I can damn well move on too.

No more hiding. 

No more disappearing.

I’m going home next week.

And I’m filing for divorce.

Let people talk.

Let them whisper about my broken marriage like it’s gossip candy.

I know what kind of love I deserve.

And it’s not this shattered shell of a life.

So if they think I’m leaving because he got another woman pregnant,
because he’s jobless,

because I “couldn’t give him a baby,”

because I “wasn’t enough”—

Let them.

Screw it. Screw them.

I’m done performing grief for people who think pain is entertainment.

I don’t owe anyone my story.

Not the full version.

Not even the polite version.

I won’t explain myself anymore.

No more fake smiles at family gatherings.

No more dodging questions like “Where’s your husband?”

No more pretending I’m okay with being betrayed.

Their opinions?

Fit in the palm of my hand.

Small. 

Powerless. 

Disposable.

All I care about now— Is living.

Fully.

Loudly.

With my friends. 

With my family. 

With what’s left of my soft heart.

No more bending for tradition.

No more sugarcoating.

And love?

Marriage?

Men?

I’m done.

Judge me if you want.

Think I’m bitter.

Call me cold.

Whisper that I’ve “changed.”

Like I care.

To everyone who’s suddenly so damn invested in my life— Here’s a newsflash:

Back. The hell. Up.

Go live your own life, if it’s not too boring for you.

Mine’s not yours to dissect.

And now?

I’m going to sleep.

With peace, finally.

Without you haunting my dreams.