Better Lighting.

You replaced us with something cleaner, something quieter.

Something that looked better from the outside but had no history inside it.

We used to be messy—loud laughter, shared grief, the kind of love that didn’t ask permission to exist.

Now, you’ve turned it into architecture—glass walls...empty rooms...echoes where there used to be language. 

You call it growth.

I call it...erasure—because what you removed wasn’t dysfunction.

It was depth. 

It was culture. 

It was the parts of us that didn’t fit your new aesthetic...and maybe you’re happier now.

Maybe this version of love feels safer...but safety without substance is just distance with better lighting and I refuse to live inside something that looks whole but feels like nothing.