You were the first thing I ever captured beautifully.
Every line bent toward you like prayer,
like blood pouring in the shape of your name.
You lit something in me,
not hope, not love,
something older. Hungrier.
I called it inspiration.
But it was worship.

I gave you pages,
painted you in metaphors
that made you more than human,
more than you ever earned.

And then you broke me.

Now I live in the wreckage.
Every page is stained with grief.
No glow.
Just ruin.

I can’t stop creating.
Even now, even bleeding.

These are portraits smeared in ash.
They are prayers for the version of you,
that never even existed.

Now I can’t even create anything,
That doesn’t feel like mourning.