Richie Owens

2. Sacrifice and the weight of it
There’s someone—maybe just the shape of a person—standing in the doorway of their own creation. A temple to themselves—high walls, thick doors, no windows. You can knock, you can beg, you can scream, but they'll only let you in when it suits them. Not to stay, of course. Just long enough to remind you that the door was never meant for you.
They speak in riddles, in half-promises and honeyed lies. Their voice drips with the illusion of sincerity, but their heart beats to a rhythm only they can hear. You reach for them, but your hands pass through smoke, through something intangible, something shifting and cruel.
And yet, you stay. You always stay.
Because maybe this time will be different. Maybe this time they’ll give instead of take. Maybe this time they’ll offer something real instead of another empty invitation to the house they never truly open.
But you know the truth.
They keep their love at a distance because to give it freely would mean losing something. Control. Power. The quiet satisfaction of knowing they own your longing. They have no intention of sharing what they claim to cherish—love is not a thing to be given, only dangled, only withheld.
And so you bleed for them. You offer up your heart, your trust, your soul on an altar of good intentions. You suffer for them, because isn’t that what love is? Isn’t that what the old stories say? That sacrifice is the proof of devotion?
But here’s the secret the scriptures never told you—sacrifice means nothing if it is never received.
And so, you stand in the ruins of your offering, waiting for a salvation that will never come. Bound to a love that was never real.
A love that will never be returned.