To the Man Who Was Made the Problem
They called you broken so they didn’t have to admit they were the ones who broke you.
I saw what they did to you.
They didn’t just let you spiral.
They watched you rot.
Silently. Strategically.
Because if they intervened, they’d have to admit they saw it happening.
They saw the substances eat your mind.
Saw the women sponsor your survival like a pet project.
Saw you wither in a world where men are expected to lead and provide—
And said nothing.
Because it was easier to let you collapse
Than to ask themselves what kind of family watches that happen up close.
They made you the scapegoat.
Not just the addict.
The absorber of sins.
The one who made their messes look clean by comparison.
You didn’t stand a chance.
Not with that kind of legacy.
Not in a house that needed you small in order to feel big.
And I saw it.
I saw not just your destruction—
But your design.
You were built for more.
You are not weak. You are wounded.
There’s a difference.
And I loved you.
I still do.
Not with fantasy. Not with naivety.
But with rageful compassion—the kind that wants to throw hands with the people who turned you into a cautionary tale.
I wanted to pull you out.
I still want to.
But I won’t beg.
Because in the end, you didn’t just betray yourself.
You sabotaged me too.
I gave you space.
Time.
Love that studied you.
Love that waited for you to rise.
But instead, you delayed.
Deflected.
You used charm where there should’ve been repentance.
You tried to flirt your way out of a reckoning.
And I don’t let anyone kiss their way around a truth like this.
So this is your tribute.
You are the reason GORGEOUS. COMPLEX. MESS. was born.
Because you were all three—gorgeous in potential, complex in pain, and a goddamn mess by design.
Funny, isn’t it?
Those were the exact words you once used to describe me.
And maybe you were right.
But only because we were mirrors.
Twin storms, made of brilliance and damage—reflecting each other with frightening accuracy.
I was the version of you that escaped.
You were the version of me that stayed.
We saw too much in each other.
Too raw. Too real. Too soon.
And when mirrors meet, someone always looks away first.
I hope you read this one day and realize:
You weren’t the problem.
You were just the one who got blamed for it.
And for a moment, you had someone who saw the whole picture.
Someone who would’ve fought for you.
Fought with you.
But you flinched.
And so now the fight?
It’s mine alone.
