The Curse of Being Loved

I was cursed before I even understood what love meant.

A demon marked me when I was only a child,

whispering that no heart would ever belong to me

without being destroyed by it.

And he was right.

Anyone who tried to love me

slowly lost themselves.

Some became obsessed,

watching me as if I were the last light left in the world.

Some turned cruel with desperation,

trying to possess what they could never truly keep.

Others simply died,

suddenly and without reason,

as though death itself grew jealous of their feelings for me.

But I never hurt them.

Never.

I loved gently.

I cared too deeply.

I gave warmth to broken souls

even while my own hands trembled with fear.

Still, the curse remained.

The demon never touched me again,

yet I always feel him nearby —

in mirrors,

in dark hallways,

in the silence after someone says they love me.

As if he is waiting.

Watching.

Claiming what he believes is his forever.

So I learned to walk away before love could bloom.

To disappear before attachment became obsession.

To smile from a distance

so no one else would lose their mind,

their life,

or their soul because of me.

I was never meant to be loved.

Only haunted.

@newgirldark