Welcome to the museum of my mistakes

He loved risk the way I loved potential: recklessly. His favorite bet? My patience. Every decision was a roll of the dice, except when it came to commitment—that was always snake eyes.

He was a 3 a.m. poem and a 3 p.m. ghost. We danced around the truth until closing time, but sobriety was always the unwelcome third wheel.

He had a safe word for everything except honesty. Turns out my boundary issues were the real fetish. Power exchange without power balance is just exploitation with props.

He moved slowly, but his excuses were lightning fast. Evolution takes time; your standards don't have to. I became his project manager instead of his partner.

He saw patterns in clouds; I saw one in my dating history. When everything is a plot, intimacy never is. Trust requires shared reality, not shared delusions.

Many hearts, minimal scheduling skills. I didn't mind sharing until I realized I was sharing myself thin. Time allocation became emotional taxation.

Every conversation was a monologue with audience participation. I was the backup singer to his solo career. Empathy was a foreign language he refused to learn.

Present until he wasn't. "Read" until he couldn't. Available until the moment you needed availability. Disappearing acts are impressive in magic shows, not relationships.

Perfect, kind, emotionally available—terrified me so much I ghosted myself. Sometimes the red flag is your own panic. Self-sabotage is still sabotage.