The selflessly selfish woman. She is a paradox in motion, love offered freely, recklessly, like an open door swinging wide for all who approach, even those who never deserved to knock. Her warmth floods the room, soft and golden, but when love is returned,when someone dares to fill her heart placed in a porcelain cup, she recoils. She’s a healer, a nurse of tender things. She knows how to soothe, how to mend the skin of others with a kiss. But when love lingers too long, when it dares to settle, it leaves her trembling. She’ll sew up his wounds with the finest thread, careful and kind, then vanish before the bleeding begins. She calls it mercy, perhaps even grace, but it’s escape by another name. She disappears without a trace, yet the truth will always follow in her shadow: it’s not the chaos she fears, but the calm. She craves the ache of love decaying, the flicker of passion burning itself out. The slow fade, like a bonfire dwindling to embers, feels safer than the steady glow of something lasting. She’ll try, so **** hard, if it’s soft, steady, and solid… but she’ll search for any crack, any reason to run. She screams that she doesn’t deserve the good. And maybe she believes it. But love, real love, was never meant to be understood. It’s felt. It’s built. And no matter how strong the walls are, if giving stops feeling like sacrifice, she’ll break them down just to run again. They call her kind. They call her brilliant. But no one notices the hollow look in her eyes. Her best version of love is always with one foot out the door, mourning things she can’t let herself want. She’s a martyr with blueprints for escape folded into the seams of her being. Her arms are empty, her hands trembling, from all the effort it takes to give what she never seems to keep. She is the selflessly selfish woman, both a curse and an art. Saving everyone she can…except her own heart.
