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I saw my name erased in real time.

That collar—

cold metal I once warmed with my breath—

wasn’t just a thing.

It was a promise

locked around my throat

with rituals and rules

and whispered mine

said like a prayer.

That ring—

the future you swore was waiting—

wasn’t jewelry.

It was the life I rehearsed in my body,

the wife I practiced becoming,

the soft obedience I gave

because you said it meant forever.

And now it’s listed.

Advertised.

Displayed like a used altar piece.

One month.

Thirty fucking days.

Do you know what that means?

It means I wasn’t replaced—

I was liquidated.

What we built didn’t end.

It was sold.

I stayed faithful to the ghost of you

while you dressed another woman

in my symbols,

my language,

my devotion.

She wears the shape of my love

without knowing the cost.

And I—

I stood there breathing

while something holy inside me

collapsed.

My soul didn’t scream.

It didn’t fight.

It just went quiet.

Like an animal that realizes

the door was never locked—

it was staged.

You didn’t just cheat.

You rewrote history

before the ink on my grief was dry.

You called me wife.

You called me chosen.

You called me sanctuary.

Then you proved I was

inventory.

But hear this—

because this is the part you don’t get to keep:

I was never owned

because I was replaceable.

I was owned because I consented.

Because I loved with intention,

with structure,

with trust so deep

it became ritual.

And that kind of devotion

doesn’t disappear

just because you cheapened it.

You can give away the collar.

You can slide the ring onto another hand.

You can cosplay permanence

with someone new.

But you will never again have

the girl who believed you

before the fracture.

And I will never again

be that girl.

I survived the moment

my future showed up

without me in it.

And if my soul died that day—

then good.

Because what comes back

won’t kneel so easily

for someone who sells sacred things

like they were nothing.