does knowing me more lead to loving me less?
each word that i whisper feels like a confession,
each layer i peel leaves me brittle, exposed,
as if love were a wound that i’ve over-disclosed.

i watch as your eyes, once soft as the dusk,
harden like mirrors, reflecting my rust.
the crows in my chest take flight without warning,
their wings beat a dirge for a love that’s still mourning.

i told you my secrets, the ugliest parts,
thinking you'd cradle the ruins of my heart.
but your hands are now colder, your grip unsure—
how much truth can one love endure?

beneath every lamp that hums through the night,
i replay our moments, the ones that felt right.
but the light casts my shadow, distorted and stark,
and i wonder if love fades faster in the dark.

i spoke of my fears, the ghosts that remain,
the nights i’ve drowned in invisible rain.
you listened in silence, but not like before—
your quiet now cuts, it feels like a door.

each flaw that i show feels a little too loud,
like wearing my shame as a funeral shroud.
i wish i could silence the cracks in my voice,
but i gave you my truth—you didn’t have a choice.

does knowing me more lead to loving me less?
does the weight of my being feel like duress?
am i more than you bargained for, too much to take,
or simply a dream that you wish you could wake?

the crows return nightly, their cries fill the air,
a chorus of failure, a requiem of despair.
their wings smother the lamps, the streets disappear,
and i wonder if you’d love me more if i weren’t here.

what did you see when you first took my hand?
a lighthouse, a beacon, a place you could stand?
or was it the mask, the lie i could keep,
the surface of me, where the cracks ran too deep?

and now, when you look, do you see the decay,
the soft rot of love that slips further each day?
did i ruin the dream by showing the mess—
does knowing me more lead to loving me less?

every word i regret, every truth that i shared,
feels like a thread of me you’ve slowly pared.
i gave you my stories, my wounds, my despair,
but love cannot grow in the absence of care.

the crows circle lower, their cries sound like yours,
a voice that once soothed, now weathered and coarse.
the lamp flickers faintly, its light almost gone,
and i know in my chest that the love won’t last long.

but still, i keep asking, though i know the reply,
does knowing me more lead to goodbye?
perhaps love was a lie, too fragile to press,
or perhaps it’s just me—does knowing me more lead to loving me less?