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Victoria 13h
I have your voicemails on repeat,
To hear you say “I love you” again.
You said that you loved me, and I believed you.
You tell me you’re excited to see me.
You tell me how much you miss me,
How you’re leaving Thursday night free for a date.

Did you know then, that you’d leave me behind?

Because your voice still sounds like it’s mine.
A cleaner slate than ever,
All traces scrubbed away,
And while I can admit I was cowardly,
That’s something you’d never say.

I no longer crave your closure,
The whole picture’s clear to see,
It was never about my well-being
You just found someone else to please.

Which makes it extra ******,
Reaching out just to gloat,
You couldn’t leave me be,
Had to shove it down my throat.

It’s changed my whole perception
Of the soul I thought you had,
I believed all that interlinked *******-
So that’s my ******* bad.

Now you open another playbook,
Most likely filled with the same plays,
And I just have to laugh at myself-
That’s just the way of the game.
There's so many of you who personally reach out to me, which is sweet ❤️ so I'm gonna say in advance I am fine, I just feel very bitter today and I'll be back on the path to loving life again tomorrow ✨️
I knew, since the start
True ones don't let you down.
I must praise your toxic art-
Of tricking and blinding what is real.
It almost made me accept the deal,
Until I found myself healed.

And see,
That I meant so much more
Than spending my whole life under your toxic core.
I’m glad that the second I heard the taxi horn-
I got in and got home.
Cried, cooked, and realized:
You're not worth a tear; you're worth nothing.
It was then that I grasped-
It was my pure intentions that made you everything.

I already knew since the start:
The true one for me wouldn’t let me down.
Moral of the story?
Good riddance and good lesson.
You're at the age where you should have a son,
And it's high time I took my light back
And became my own hero
When I cannot see the sun.
you called me
the cure
without
ever reading
the fine print.

now you call me
a curse,
despite my explaining
that healing
comes with a burn.

in the future,
call me
however you like,
just don't come back
when you miss the high.
this one is about someone who wanted my world, but ignored the cost.
June 30, 2025
I still hold onto your fantasy in my head tight.
Can you feel the memories at night?
Or are you completely alright?
Do you replay every detail in your head, too?
I believed in your potential even if your damage grew.
I realized they were always there, the clues,
A part of me still wants you to remember though, just for the sake of the blues.

I guess there was no way clear,
Your voice's still ringing deep inside my ear.
I know it'll pass and i'd be healed,
But i can't help and peel
My lips, when i think about everything,
Will we ever get closure or just nothing?
Guess i'll get my tea,
sit on that breezy balcony,
And try to do nothing.
I brewed the coffee more for you than for me,
A ritual dressed in honesty.
The mug you left — I held it near,
Like touching it might make you appear.
I wrote you notes you never read,
Then tucked them back beneath my bed.

I set your place, then stared at mine,
As if routine could rewind time.
I’d hum your songs to fill the space,
Mistaking ache for your embrace.
But holding on can blur the view —
I feared what leaving meant was true.

And so today, I break that thread,
Not out of hate, but love instead.
I’ll drink for one, I’ll clear your cup —
It’s not moving on, it’s waking up.

© Copyright 2025 - Limes Carma
pili 6d
its coming up on a year
a year without you
longer than I had with you to begin with
and I can say I don't think of you often
in passing more than anything
and i feel little about it

I know one day it will be my wedding day
someday, as lace cinches my waist and vows hover in the air,
as i get ready you’ll cross my mind
not from longing, just a glitch in memory’s muscle
curiosity killed the cat but I’ve been dead all my life
so I’ll wonder where life has taken you
and I’ll be glad I don’t know for sure, glad you’re not at the end of the altar waiting for me
and maybe I’ll have the children I would never have been able to have with you
and they’ll like poetry, and I’ll think of you again
I’ll teach my boy to not act the way you did, the way I hope by then you don't either

I’ve come to accept that thinking of you will happen
you shaped me as a person and six months can hold a lot of weight, turns out
I’ve stopped worrying about subconscious meanings
I think of you not because you still hurt me, not because I’ve not moved on
I think of you the way i do about those mornings when I was seven and watched the tv all alone  just to let time pass
in the way i think about that one mean girl from middle school, or that pretty girl from high school
in the way i think about my grandpa, the memories few and blurry and probably half made up
in the way i think about my first job, a lesson of bitter taste followed by so much better
in the way i think about every other boy that came and hurt and went
bye bye ex
pili 6d
i’m over you
no really
truly

i feel nothing when i think of you
and it's bizarre if i'm honest
the emptiness that washes over the cracks in my heart,
over the crooks where sadness and anger were once stuffed

i'm over you, you were in my life for 5 months and it took me 6 to do it
but i am, over you
they say it takes 28 days for skin to regenerate
28 days for the lingering poison of your touch to disappear from my body
you’d think, having been 6 months since you left I would feel good about it
and I’m happy
i feel lighter
just not light

because it takes 28 days for skin to grow anew
but for me its only figurative and poetic
after all you never did touch me
so i feel the ghost of our future together
the one you killed gripping onto my skin,
the weight of what could have been akin to that of the absence of you
I close my eyes and see your silhouette,
the outline of dreams we dared to name but not chase
your voice echoing through the hollow spaces where my hope laid waste

the emotions aren’t there anymore
i can breathe finally not under their weight
but connection lingers, the facts and memories as one

because it’s been 6 months since you walked out
and yet i know that you are a light sleeper
i know that you can’t function without a heating pad
i know what your favorite patches on your jacket are
and what’s the next tattoo you want

I know the careers you dreamed of pursuing
the future you wanted to grasp in your hands
if only the world had given you the chance,
and how it saddens you that it didn’t.
I know every dessert you love is tainted with raspberries some way or another,
every bread you eat bitterly laced with the memory of your father

I know your favorite show
and the scenes that make you cry.
I know what your notebook looks like,
and how my name is written somewhere inside

I know your silences mean fear
I know the snort in your laugh when it’s so raw, so real, that you can’t hold it back.
I know you’re scared to be alone
I know how to read your looks like a page full of words
at your core its you that i know

because five months isn't a lot
but its enough time to learn
and six months isn't enough to forget
i still carry you like a splinter
useless, too small to pull, too deep to ignore
and constantly under my skin

They say time heals, that distance brings clarity,
but time is a thief, stealing everything except the memory
And clarity is cruel, showing me the jagged edges of what I once thought full
where i thought love and warmth lay, distrust and hurt showed
I try to rebuild myself, brick by brittle brick,
but every wall I raise feels like a monument to you

i.m filled with pieces of you like shrapnel,
no box to bury them in, no ears to hold their sting
Maybe one day my skin will forget the not-quite-there touch,
my body will no longer carry the bruises of your latch
But for now, I am a graveyard full of your past, of all you didn’t want
a mosaic of broken pieces waiting to fully be crushed

but if anyone asks
im over you
self-explanatory i think
pili 6d
in the unexpected safety of a club bathroom
i lean over the sink, hands damp, breath slow.
through the haze, i catch the girl next to me
i marvel at her bronze skin as she reapplies lipstick with precision
the same shade i wore minutes ago
i compliment her bracelet.
she smiles, thanks me.
i go back to the mirror, thinking that was that.

but then she taps my shoulder
and hands me a candy from the many in her bag
neatly wrapped, cherry flavored
“like my lip balm” i think
“like your lip balm,” she says as she smiled
and in that moment i almost cry
because how could a drunk stranger in a bathroom see me for me better than you ever had?

you tasted the cherry lip balm i love as you kissed me, so you bit my tongue to taste blood instead
on finding out people can love me better than you ever could
pili 6d
in my writing anyone can tell i'm a fraud
just a painter trying their hand at a new form
composition swapped for sentence structure,
verses on pages where watercolors on canvases once laid

in your writing i can tell you're a fraud
you put words into your mouth, hope people believe them yours when they spill out
a performative emotional ventriloquist waiting for applause

i used to think writers romanticize and painters show,
after all you were my frame of reference when it came to poetry
but I’ve since learned you’re just not truly a writer

I put down the pencil and picked up the ink
and hey i'm not half bad but you’re not half good
i tried to speak your language not realizing you didn’t know it either
kept handing you words you could rewrite into warnings

come to think of it you never tried to speak mine,
never tried to translate me, never grabbed charcoal
and maybe it's for the better,
you would have smudged it around to cover up who i am
you mime meaning and call it understanding,
i was wrong in mistaking your performance for presence
maybe you being a **** writer wasn't all bad,  if it kept me from the monster you actually believed i am
maybe you being a **** writer is why i too fell in love with the version of me you crafted, she’s a little less ruined

the more i look back the more things i notice, more things to write about
like how your poems were never directed at me,
i was not the audience you were pandering too because you knew you already had me hooked,
no, instead you wrote to another public,
I was a character in your songs you could show off, let people pick and ****
made me into a myth, a tale parents tell their kids to scare them into sleep
you were my muse and the person i was trying to reach with my strokes
not realizing there was no heart to reach for

so i write now and you still don't paint,
if you did i think you’d be bad at it anyway
you’d hate cubism, seeing more than one perspective seems to fracture your mind
and you’d find a way to romanticize it all, put reality aside
you never were good at taking things at face value,
even worse at translating and encompassing things bigger than you
I was the stars but knowing you, you’d just paint a blank black sky, add your own galaxies to and call it a piece worth while

either way i still write, usually about you, always directed at you
i find new words and try to rewrite the story you told,
but if i ever show the public I’ll be sure to make it an illustrated book with all the imagery i know you can't paint
to my ex that called himsef a poet, a loverboy, a yearner, and only every romanticized me
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