New Poem? this one is so heavy on my heart fr so I hope u like it :)

“Girl Raised on Betrayal” "Tell me honestly— is love truly beautiful, or is it merely a myth invented by poets too lonely to survive reality? Because betrayal found me before I even understood what betrayal meant. It lived in my house like a second religion. I learned its language through slammed doors, through my mother’s swollen silence, through the way women smile politely while dying internally. The first man I was taught to trust was the first man who taught me fear. My father. The word still feels strange in my mouth. He cheated on my mother not once— never just once— but enough times for apologies to become routine. And every time, he swore to God it would never happen again. Every time my mother forgave him with trembling mercy. Not because she was weak. No. Because mothers are terrifyingly gentle creatures. She stayed because of me. Because she thought a broken father was somehow better than no father at all. But what nobody understood was this: absence does not always look like abandonment. Sometimes a man remains physically present while emotionally becoming a ghost. I grew up inside a house where every movement was monitored, every mistake remembered, every emotion measured carefully— except his. Because when men destroy things, people call it nature. When women break, people call it failure. He could betray. Lie. Message other women at night. Humiliate my mother quietly. And somehow the world still expected her to preserve his image beautifully. Which she did. God, she did. She protected the dignity of a man who continuously wounded her. Meanwhile he exposed himself effortlessly— careless lies, foolish behavior, the arrogance of a man convinced he would always be forgiven. Everyone knew he was a fool. Everyone knew he did not deserve her. Especially me. And perhaps that is why love became so complicated inside me. Because how do you trust romance after witnessing what it does to women you adore? So I escaped elsewhere. Into films. Into older actors with tired eyes. Into fictional men written safely onto paper. Imaginary people cannot betray me personally. They cannot wake up one morning and decide my love is inconvenient. Fantasy became safer than reality. Healthier? Maybe not. But safer. Girls my age fall in love so easily. They collect relationships like pressed flowers. Some are engaged already. Some plan weddings. Some speak about forever with frightening confidence. And me? I sit alone at night trying to analyze every word a man says to me. Did he mean it honestly? Or beautifully? There is a difference. When someone tells me “I love you,” my heart does not melt immediately. It investigates. It panics. It searches for hidden women inside his phone screen. For lies buried beneath sweetness. I wonder: Does he text other girls secretly the way my father did? Does he smile at them too? Promise them things too? People say this is unhealthy. Obsessive. Paranoid. Perhaps it is. But fear is not born from nowhere. Fear is built slowly— from watching your mother cry quietly in kitchens, from hearing arguments through walls, from realizing too young that love does not guarantee loyalty. After enough betrayal, even tenderness feels suspicious. And sometimes I hate myself for it. Because beneath all this fear there is still a painfully romantic girl. A girl who wants forehead kisses. Late-night phone calls. Warm arms around her shoulders. A love untouched by deception. A girl who still believes, secretly, that somewhere in this cruel world there must exist a man who does not treat devotion like something disposable. But trauma is exhausting. It turns the heart into both a hopeless romantic and a detective simultaneously. So now whenever love approaches me, two voices begin arguing internally. One whispers: Finally. Someone gentle enough to stay. The other laughs coldly: That’s exactly what your father sounded like too. And maybe that is the cruelest inheritance betrayal leaves behind— not heartbreak itself, but teaching someone to fear happiness the moment it begins feeling real." > Hecate Mortem Vespera 🦇