Void

Void. (Poem)
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The Void
By: MissT. POEM
Reflections & Poetry

Note from MissT:
This one’s for the women who’ve loved like lifelines—who tried to fix someone who never wanted to heal. Who gave too much, bent too far, and were left with silence, blame, or both. If you’ve ever felt replaceable after breaking, I hope this gives your pain a voice.

The Void Wasn’t Mine to Fill

Reflection

I tried to love a man who was a walking void.

A black hole of misery, depression, self-doubt, and childlike neediness that masqueraded as love. He didn’t want a partner—he wanted a mother. Someone to cradle him, fix him, put him first. And not just first—but above all else. Above my peace, above my plans, and yes, even above my children.

When I was low, crumbling from my own depression, he didn’t lift me—he left me. Found someone else to talk to. A 63-year-old woman became his confidante while I was barely holding myself together after Christmas. And this wasn’t new. Two years ago, after another breakup, he went to his sister’s house and arranged to meet a woman in Brighton. Like clockwork. Like muscle memory.

He can’t sit with himself. That’s the truth.
He can’t survive the silence of his own soul, so he fills it—quickly, desperately, recklessly—with someone new. Every time I stepped back, he stepped into someone else’s inbox. And this time? He reached out to a woman he dated before me. A preacher, no less. I don’t know if they’re just reconnecting or already something more. What I do know is that I see the pattern, and I won’t unsee it again.

He punished me for leaving. He always does. Passive aggressively, emotionally, and this time, publicly. Social media posts like wounds left open just long enough for me to notice. But here’s the truth: I’m not hurt because I want him back. I’m hurt because I gave so much of myself, trying to fix what he never intended to heal.

We weren’t intimate after Christmas. That silence between us grew loud. I knew. My body knew. My heart had already started grieving long before we said the words out loud.

I was emotionally dependent on him. I can admit that now. I went back because I didn’t know how to love myself. I didn’t even know what self-love meant. But I’m starting to learn that self-love looks like this:
Not chasing what wounds me.
Not begging to be seen.
Not bending just to be touched.

He couldn’t survive his own truth. But I can survive mine.
And that’s the difference.

The Void

I tried to love a man
who was a walking void—
a black hole dressed in flesh,
full of need, full of noise.

He didn’t want a partner,
he wanted a mother’s hands.
To cradle his chaos,
to silence his demands.

He asked to be first—
above peace, above plans,
above children I birthed
with my own bleeding hands.

When I was unraveling,
low and hollow after Christmas,
he found a stranger
to soothe what he claimed to miss.

Clockwork heartbreak—
Brighton, sisters, inboxes full.
He lined them up
before my memory could dull.

He cannot face silence.
He cannot face shame.
So he climbs into new arms
and calls it a different name.

He punishes absence
like absence is sin—
but the real crime was
how much I let him in.

No touch after winter,
no warmth in our bed.
My body knew the truth
before it reached my head.

Yes, I was dependent.
Yes, I went back.
Because I mistook chaos
for something I lacked.

But here is the shift:
I’ve stopped chasing pain.
I no longer beg
to be held in the rain.

Self-love begins here—
not in rose petals or light,
but in walking away
and choosing what’s right

He won’t survive truth.
But I know I will.
And that big black void

Was never mine to fill.

To anyone out there reading this and recognizing your own story: you are not weak for loving hard. You are not broken for feeling deeply. But maybe—just maybe—it’s time to start writing a love story where the hero is you.

MissT

This is not about any one person — it’s about a pattern I’ve seen in more than one relationship, and the healing I’m working through.”