The Spell Breaks

It's broken;
Smashed, like a crystal vase on cement.
This love sick spell has lifted.
Not breaking through as sun beams,
or the first few blossoms of spring.

No, the dreams cracked like my pride did,
snapping underneath my feet like a rotten staircase,
just when I thought I had found a safe balance.
The charms crumpled like my inhibitions did,
silently, hungrily, and completely,
leaving muddy footprints on my heart.
The enchantments vanished, as neatly as my hope did,
hope that the chaos could be swept under the rug;
that my shame didn't have to be seen.

He did see.
He saw, they saw, we all saw,
some with shock, some with smug satisfaction,
that I wasn't doing any of this
for my future, for my heart,
or even for my loneliness.

Love was a prize for the worthy.
Love was a tool I could use.
Love was a game I could win.
It feels impossible to stem the rivers of regret,
streaming down my cheeks,
and even harder to win back respect,
I threw away so flippantly.
Here, in the morning light,
the night's excitement has faded,
replaced by these dusty realizations.

How exactly does one start to put the pieces back together,
when the pieces are made of smoke and false promises?