i wince because you wanted me
to love you tenderly and tirelessly,
but tragically for you, all you ever did

was waste my precious time. so, sure,
you can twist my words, do it for
your own self-assurance, but i will

note yours down accurately, for my
own sanity and art; i can handle being
publicly contempted, but we both know,

deep down, you are still attempting
to be something you are so clearly not

there's this theory, my mom once told me,
that liars are always reincarnated as dogs
i've been thinking a lot about people dying lately
and i've also started counting time in dog years
according to such, it's been about two long dog decades
i don't miss you anymore, and i'm about done grieving you
(you would've just called me out- i'm a liar through and through)
and i found that if i drink enough, you're still here, well and alive
your mom never cries or loops your old playlists when she drives
your dad never comes over to gift me souvenirs from your life
your sister never learns to shape grief into an essay in one night
no, you're still helping her brainstorm what exactly to write
we stay up together, on facetime, stressing the the entire night
and she chooses premed because of a torn ACL, not a torn family
and we spend hours debating if she should submit her SATs
and grief is only ever-so-distant, yet only oh-so-familiar
we have it our way: it is never more than a recognizable stranger
i write you in present tense, you agree: dogs in our next life
i gaslight, i lose my mind, i'm convinced anything's worth a try-
so, how many poems do you think i have to write
for it to be enough to bring a friend back to life?

perhaps i kept you like a secret, but
you spilled and overflowed into everything i did
lingered oh-so-noticeably, like an expensive perfume
perhaps you left me, but you also left your presence
like coffee stains on my journals, like, despite my wishes
all of your reserved enunciations and misspelled mannerisms
still shadow alongside every line that i reluctantly write
my parents say i am selfish, and perhaps they are right
my friends say this is hopeless, i hate that they're always right
perhaps i still sing about how we were "right person, wrong time"
perhaps i still write about a different us living out a different life
one where getting to love you is still a privilege of mine
perhaps i've finally stopped writing about the day we reunite
perhaps i can't move on, perhaps i lie, perhaps you'll understand
when i tell you over lunch, on the verge of tears, that i'm afraid
that i will suffer a case of unrequited love until the day that i die

𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯

This spoon is bigger than my plate
these green peas are bigger than your mouth
like the big words that are bigger than this conversation
It’s making this evening hard to swallow
your big eyes are bigger than my lies
and this lie is bigger than the both of us
you tell me to be the bigger man
now here I am

i ask you to repent, for me
come clean, for me
and tell your dad,
no, i wasn’t 18

i was
mature for my age