You speak in riddles,
like a child who can’t find the words
but craves the attention,
acting like love is a game
with no rules—
just laughter and little hurts
that fade as quickly as they come.

You want the fun,
the thrill of the chase,
the spark that fades after the first kiss,
but when the real work starts—
when it’s time to stay,
to put the pieces together
instead of breaking them apart—
you run,
like a child in the middle of a tantrum,
too tired to care,
too scared to try.

You give me your love in bursts—
sweet promises one minute,
shifting moods the next,
as if affection were a toy
you pick up and drop at will.
I am your game,
your distraction,
until the next shiny thing catches your eye,
and then you forget
how to play by the rules.

I’m not your mother,
I’m not here to fix your mess,
to clean up after your tantrums,
to pretend your immaturity is cute.
I’m not your playground
where you run wild
and leave pieces of me scattered
on the ground.

You want love?
Then stop playing,
stop hiding behind jokes
and acting like it’s all just a phase,
because I’m done being the one
who waits for you to grow up,
to figure out
that this isn’t a game anymore.