There’s a place no one talks about.
Not because it’s hidden-
but because it’s nothing worth remembering
to anyone who didn’t need it.
Fluorescent lights that never fully wake up.
Tile that holds onto every sound
and gives it back,
louder.
Sinks that cough instead of run.
Soap that’s always almost gone.
Paper towel dispensers that stare back empty.
And the stalls-
doors that don’t close all the way,
locks that pretend to work.
Except one.
The first stall.
Closest to the door.
Closest to being seen.
Closest to leaving.
It should feel exposed.
It should feel like the worst place to hide.
But it isn’t.
It’s the only place that ever felt like it didn’t expect anything from me.
I didn’t choose it.
I just ended up there-
the way you end up somewhere
when your chest gets too tight
and your thoughts start overlapping
and you need a space that doesn’t ask you to explain yourself.
Thirty-nine days from now
I’ll walk across a stage
and people will give a half clap or two…
and my name will be said
like it belongs there.
I keep trying to picture what I’ll miss.
It’s not the classrooms.
Not the hallways that always felt too narrow
or too full
or somehow both at once.
Not the lockers slamming-
sharp,
constant,
like the building reminding you it’s alive
even when you feel like you aren’t.
It’s that stall.
The door with paint worn thin where hands have pushed it open.
The lock that sticks just enough
that you have to press harder,
like it needs proof you actually want to be inside.
It never asked me anything.
It never needed me to be okay
before I walked in.
Especially not that day.
I can still feel how quickly everything shifted.
How voices changed
without warning.
How people I trusted
started speaking
like they had already decided
who I was.
Things that weren’t true
said out loud
like they had weight.
And I stood there
waiting for someone-
anyone-
to pause long enough
to hear me.
They didn’t.
It was my birthday.
That part feels unreal now.
Like it belongs to a different story
that got interrupted halfway through
and never picked back up.
One moment-
there was supposed to be something light about the day.
Something ordinary.
And then just there wasn’t.
After that,
everything got quiet in the wrong way.
Not peaceful quiet.
Not the kind you choose.
The kind that follows you.
That fills the space
where voices used to be.
People who used to look at me
started looking through me.
Or past me.
Or at each other
about me.
I stopped trying to catch their eyes.
I stopped trying to explain.
I just left.
I don’t remember deciding to run.
I just remember moving
until I wasn’t around anyone anymore.
And somehow
I ended up there.
In that first stall.
I closed the door
and it didn’t close all the way
and I didn’t care.
I just needed something between me
and everything else.
At first,
I tried to stay quiet.
Like if no one heard me
then it wouldn’t count.
But everything I hadn’t said
did not stay contained.
It came out anyway.
My hands pressed against my face
like I could hold myself together
if I just tried hard enough.
I don’t know how long I stayed in there.
Long enough for it to stop feeling temporary.
Days turned into weeks
without anything officially changing
except the way I moved through everything.
Quieter.
Careful.
Like I was something breakable
that no one wanted to carry.
And every day
I went back.
Not always for long.
Sometimes just long enough
to sit
and let my shoulders drop
Just for a second.
Between classes.
Before the bell.
After.
A minute that didn’t belong to anyone else.
Eventually
it became the only place that felt predictable.
But then lunch changed.
The cafeteria was too loud.
Too visible.
Too easy to notice
where you weren’t sitting
and who you weren’t sitting with.
So I stopped going.
Instead
I sat there.
On the closed lid,
knees pulled in,
unwrapping food slowly
so it would last longer…
so I wouldn’t have to leave yet.
It didn’t feel sad.
That’s the part people wouldn’t understand.
It felt quiet in a way that didn’t hurt.
It felt like nothing was being asked of me.
Until someone decided
that even that was too much.
A rule.
No hallways during lunch.
As if you can organize absence.
As if you can schedule where someone is allowed to disappear.
I still went back.
Just in smaller pieces.
Because it wasn’t about when.
It was about where.
I only ever used that stall.
Even when the others were empty.
Because the others didn’t know anything about me.
They didn’t know what I sounded like
when I was trying not to fall apart
five minutes before class.
They didn’t know how long I could sit in silence
without it feeling heavy.
They didn’t know the version of me
that didn’t have to pretend.
But this one did.
And now there are thirty-nine days left.
People keep talking about what they’ll miss.
Like it’s obvious.
Like it’s shared.
I nod
because it’s easier than explaining
that the only place I keep thinking about
is a bathroom stall
no one else would even notice.
I think about the door.
The lock.
The way it never fully shut
but still felt like enough.
I think about how something so small
held more of me
than anything else in that building.
I wonder who will end up there next.
If they’ll find it the same way-
without meaning to.
If they’ll sit down
and feel that brief,
unfamiliar sense
that they don’t have to be anything
for a minute.
I hope they do.
I hope it’s gentle with them.
Because when I leave…
when I walk across that stage
and everything looks the way it’s supposed to-
I already know
what I’ll actually be saying goodbye to.
Not the people.
Not the place as a whole.
Just that first stall.
The one that didn’t ask questions.
Didn’t choose sides.
Didn’t turn away.
The one place
that let me exist
without deciding
whether I was worth staying for.
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 10:16 PM UTC
I’m not sure why or how
but you’re definitely different
from what I’ve had before.
You have me searching my shirt
for scented reminders of your presence—
it’s there, just slightly,
just enough to drive me crazy.
Like something invisible
pressing fingerprints into my skin,
soft, warm, lingering
long after you’ve gone.
And I don’t understand it,
how something so quiet
can leave such loud impressions,
how you’ve made a home
in the smallest spaces—
fabric, breath, memory.
And that kiss—
the best I’ve ever known—
still lingers like a secret
I carry on my lips.
I swear I can still taste you,
like something sweet I wasn’t ready to lose,
and when I close my eyes
I can still feel your arms around me,
steady, certain,
like I belonged there
without having to ask.
It feels like I was something
once hardened by time,
set in my ways,
edges already decided—
and then you came in gently,
no force, no rush,
just hands steady enough
to reshape what I thought
couldn’t be changed.
Now I’m softer where you’ve touched me,
warmer where you’ve stayed,
turning slowly beneath your care,
becoming something I don’t quite recognize
but don’t want to lose.
If love is something formed,
then mine is still spinning,
still learning the curve of your hands,
still—
still yours to shape,
still yours to hold,
still yours,
Becoming Clay
Mar 27
Mar 27, 2026 at 4:32 PM UTC
I used to dress like a storm.
Black denim,
ripped sleeves,
mascara smudged into something almost intentional,
like I wanted the world to know
I was made of thunder
and broken guitar strings.
Grunge was armor.
It said
don’t touch me
don’t read me
don’t try.
And then you left,
and somehow
even the way I dressed
started missing you.
So I changed.
Not all at once,
not like flipping a switch,
but slowly,
like sunlight creeping through a room
that used to belong to night.
I traded silver chains for gold rings and brown sugar colored beads,
tight ripped jeans for loose high wasted leggings ,
black lipstick for honey gloss
that tastes like summer.
Now I wear flowing skirts
that move when the wind breathes,
and loose shirts
that fall off my shoulders
like they’re tired of holding things up.
I started looking like
a girl who believes in peace.
A girl who puts flowers
behind her ears
even when nobody is watching.
A girl who twirls in mirrors
just to see if the fabric
catches the light.
But the truth is—
I only really wear the pretty ones
on the days I work.
On the days
I know there is a chance
you might walk through the door.
And I hate admitting that
even to myself.
Because I pretend
I’m doing it for me.
I pretend
I woke up and thought,
Today feels like a soft brown dress day.
But really,
I am standing in front of my closet
like it’s a battlefield
asking questions
that fabric cannot answer.
Would he notice this one?
Would he think I look happy?
Would he see me
and pause
for half a second longer than necessary
and remember
that I used to belong to him?
Sometimes I pick outfits
like I’m building a memory.
The loose white blouse
you once said made me look
like I stepped out of a painting.
The skirt that moves like water
when I walk.
The bracelets that make small,
hopeful sounds
when I reach for things.
I imagine you noticing.
I imagine your eyes doing that thing
where they soften
before you even realize it.
Maybe you’d think,
She looks different.
Maybe you’d think,
She looks beautiful.
And maybe—
for just a second—
you’d wonder
what it would feel like
to come back.
So I walk into work
looking like sunlight
stitched into fabric.
I move carefully,
like every step is a performance
for an audience of one.
Every laugh
a little louder.
Every smile
a little brighter.
Because maybe
if I shine enough
you’ll remember
I used to be your favorite light.
But the thing about hope
is that it stretches time
until it almost snaps.
Hours pass.
Doors open.
People come and go.
And every time the bell rings
my heart jumps
like a foolish animal
that still believes in rescue.
But it’s never you.
Just strangers.
Just coworkers.
Just the quiet realization
that I built an entire version of today
around a ghost.
Still,
I keep the outfit on.
Because if I take it off
then the illusion ends.
If I change back into sweatpants
and wipe off the gloss
then I have to admit
that the person I dressed for
is not coming.
And that’s the cruelest part of love,
I think.
How it teaches you
to decorate yourself
for someone
who no longer lives in your life.
How it turns mirrors
into confession booths.
How it makes you wonder
if maybe,
just maybe,
you could be beautiful enough
to reverse time.
So I stand there
in soft fabrics
and soft sunlight,
pretending the world
is still the one
where you walk in.
Pretending you might still see me.
Pretending my heartbeat
isn’t just echoing
through empty space.
But the day always ends.
The lights dim.
The door closes.
And hope finally
loosens its grip on my ribs.
Because the truth waits for me
in the quiet of the night,
whispering the only thing
I cannot outrun:
I got dressed
for someone
who isn’t coming back.
And the flowers in my hair
are starting to wilt.
And the mirror
no longer lies for me.
And even though I changed my style—
traded storms for sunshine,
boots for soft fabrics
and peace signs—
some things never changed.
Because when I get dressed,
when I stand there
trying to make the outfit perfect
like it might matter if you see me—
I still reach
for your mom’s shoes.
Every time.
They don’t match the skirts.
They throw off the whole look.
They ruin the careful picture
I tried to paint of myself.
But they feel like your house,
and late night drives,
and the life
I almost had.
So I wear them anyway.
And I will keep wearing them.
I’ll wear them until the fabrics
start loosening at the seams,
until the careful stitching
that holds everything together
begins to fray.
I’ll wear them until the threads
give up their quiet grip
one by one.
I’ll wear them
until you notice.
Until you see them
and realize
I never stopped.
Until you remember
what you used to call me—
your baby.
You said it was my name,
scrambled in your mouth.
like it belonged there.
Until you look down
at those worn-out shoes
and understand
I’m still wearing them-
for you.
Mar 11
Mar 11, 2026 at 12:59 AM UTC
It’s the last thing you said to me
before the glass store doors sighed open
and swallowed you whole.
My friend says you don’t want things to be awkward..
but “Peace.” is a funny thing to say to an ex
when the air between us is already
so full of things we never finished saying.
Still—
I don’t mind your awkward goodbyes.
They’re always so simple.
So simple that anyone else in the world
would have let them fall to the floor
like a receipt they didn’t need.
But I kept it.
I keep everything you leave behind.
Your words echo in that little building
long after the bell above the door stops ringing.
They sit in the chairs
between cheap tables
and drinks sweating in the cooler,
and I swear
the air itself remembers
the shape of your voice.
You try to act like
you’re only there for the usual things—
a drink from the cooler,
maybe a cookie,
Sometimes a 6inch sub..
Just something small you can carry
so it doesn’t look like
you came for anything else.
But I know you better than that.
I see the way your eyes move
when you think no one notices.
A glance that lasts half a second too long.
A pause when I walk past the chair you’re in.
That quiet curiosity
like you’re studying a story
you once knew by heart.
You look at me
like you’re trying to figure out
what chapters have been written
since you left.
And I pretend not to notice.
But the truth is
I see everything.
I see you
in the reflection of the glass cooler doors
when I open them.
Your shape behind me.
Your eyes flicking up
then quickly away.
I see you
in the dull silver skin
of the sub toaster,
your reflection bending and stretching
in the metal
like a memory that refuses
to stay still.
I watch you
without turning around.
It’s funny how reflections
become mirrors
when you’re too afraid
to look directly.
And sometimes
I swear I catch it—
that moment.
The second when you realize
I’m in the reflection too.
The second when you realize
I see you seeing me.
But neither of us says anything.
The store hums around us—
coolers buzzing,
doors opening,
talking about nothing important.
And in the middle of all of it
is this quiet little gravity
pulling my eyes toward you
over
and over
and over again.
Because every time
your “store visit” ends
and your hand pushes the door open,
the sunlight cuts around your shoulders
like the world is claiming you back.
Or on cold nights
the glare from outside
spills across your face
and makes your eyes look distant.
And my chest caves in a little.
Because peace
shouldn’t look like someone leaving.
I watch the door close behind you
and the glass reflects a girl
who ruined the best thing
that ever happened to her.
That girl is me.
You were never supposed to become
a wish.
You were supposed to be
my forever.
But now
you’re the thing
I beg the universe for
in the smallest moments.
When birthday candles flicker
I lean in
and whisper your name into the smoke.
When I find a penny
sitting lonely on the ground
or resting at the bottom of a fountain
I toss it in
like the water might carry my hope
to wherever you are.
When a shooting star tears open the sky
for half a second
like heaven blinking
I close my eyes
and it’s always you.
When a ladybug lands on my hand
and people say it’s lucky
I laugh a little
because if luck were real
you’d still be beside me.
And every time an eyelash falls loose
and rests on my fingertip
I hold it up to the light
like it’s fragile magic
and whisper your name
before blowing it away.
Every wish
is you.
You.
You.
You.
It’s strange how love works like that.
How a person becomes the center
of every quiet prayer
without even knowing it.
…
And maybe the worst part is
we already proved
we could do it.
We already had the late-night talks
and the laughing
and the kind of silence
that only happens when two people
feel safe enough
to just exist next to each other.
We already had love.
Real love.
The kind that makes the world feel softer.
But I cracked it open
with my own hands.
And now every piece of it
cuts me when I remember.
I replay that moment in the store
over and over in my head.
You standing there.
Me pretending I was okay.
The fluorescent lights humming above us
like they were the only witness.
Your eyes looking tired
but still kind.
The way the door opened
and you stepped through it.
And how badly
I wanted to run after you.
To grab your sleeve
before the outside world stole you again.
To say—
Wait.
Please.
We’ve done this before.
We know how to love each other.
We know how to laugh.
We know how to hold each other
like the world isn’t ending.
Why can’t we just try again?
But the door closed.
And the bell rang.
And the store went quiet.
All I can see is your long hair flowing in the wind.
then you’re gone…
And I was left standing there
watching the reflections fade
from the cooler glass
and the silver toaster
until it was just me again.
You probably don’t even know
how much your presence does to me.
People dream about money.
About new clothes.
About shiny things
that fill empty spaces.
But the only thing
I ever ask the universe for
is smaller than that.
Quieter.
I just want you
to keep walking through those doors.
I just want to see you
standing in the aisle
pretending to decide
between two drinks
while your eyes wander back toward me…
But we both know you’re going to grab a Mountain Dew.
I don’t beg for luxury.
I beg for moments.
For the sound of the door opening.
For the quick glance
you think I miss.
For the silent conversation
happening in reflections
and stainless steel.
Because even now—
after everything we broke
and everything I ruined—
when I see you there
watching me
the same way I watch you,
a fragile hope
starts breathing again.
Not loud.
Not certain.
Just quiet enough
to whisper
maybe
somewhere inside you
there’s still a piece of peace
that looks like me.
And if I’m honest
with the deepest part of myself—
I don’t want the world.
I don’t want the life
people say I should chase.
I don’t want riches
or closets full of things.
All I want
is the one thing
I can’t buy
and can’t force
and can’t hold onto
if you don’t want me to.
I want my peace back.
And my peace
was always
you.
Mar 7
Mar 7, 2026 at 2:46 PM UTC
I wish I could wrap myself
inside his brain—
curl up in the quiet folds of it
like a thought he hasn’t finished yet.
I want his knowledge
to seep through my skin,
slow and sacred,
like ink bleeding into paper—
To thread itself through my veins
until my blood remembers
how he used to say my name.
I want it to reach my mind,
to infect my thinking,
to rearrange the furniture
of every room inside my head
where he still lives
like a ghost that never packed.
And if I lay there long enough,
if I let his presence move through me
like something viral and holy,
maybe it will repair
this fragile immune system
I built after he left.
Maybe it will teach my heart
not to attack what it loves.
Because I have been sick with him.
Sick with the memory of his hands.
Sick with the way silence sounds
when it isn’t his.
Sick with the ache of knowing
I ruined something sacred
and still want it back.
But maybe love was never the illness.
Maybe silence was.
Maybe pride was.
Maybe fear crawled into my bloodstream
and convinced me survival meant running.
And now he is coming back around the store we met at—
like a season that swore it was done.
Like the tide returning to a shoreline
that pretended it didn’t care.
I am terrified.
Because I don’t know how he feels about me now…
Because he’s all I think about…
And what if his love
is not medicine?
What if it overtakes my lungs
the way it used to—
until every breath tastes like him
and every exhale is surrender?
What if loving him
means dying in slow, beautiful ways—
drowning in the sound of his laugh,
breaking open at the brush of his fingers,
losing myself in the gravity
of being wanted
by the only person
who ever felt like oxygen?
But then—
Your love is not just a sickness,
I want to tell him.
It is not some incurable thing
I must survive.
…
It is the reason
my lungs were created—
to exhale the smoke you breathe in,
to share the same air
without suffocating.
You are not the poison.
You are the breath.
And maybe love is not meant
to be immune.
Maybe it is meant to be inhaled,
reckless and real,
even if it burns a little
on the way down.
So if you are coming back—
come gently.
Come honest.
Come knowing that I am still
beautifully broken
And I’m still in love with you.
If you decide to come back and stay,
I’ll make it known that your lungs are my priority-
That your heart is safe on my couch-
That I will unwind your tempted mind…
And if I let you inhale my exhale,
let it not be as a virus
Or lung cancer..
but as something alive—
As something that does not destroy
our lungs,
but teaches them
how to breathe.
Feb 23
Feb 23, 2026 at 9:56 PM UTC
There are songs that feel like memories.
And then there are songs that are memories.
This one is you.
It’s your truck rattling down back roads
with dust rising behind us
like something trying to follow
but never catching up.
It’s the way your voice filled small spaces —
cab of the truck,
my ribs,
all the quiet places inside me
that were finally starting to feel warm.
You didn’t just sing it.
You lived in it.
Low, soft, a little wild —
like you’d been everywhere
and still chose to be right there
next to me.
And I remember watching you
when you didn’t think I was.
The way your eyes would flick over
just to check if I was still smiling.
Like you needed proof
I was real.
You were so beautiful it almost hurt —
that stupid bright, easy smile,
sun catching in your long blonde hair,
wind pulling pieces of you loose
like the world was trying
to take you back.
I thought I had time.
I thought songs stayed songs.
I thought moments stayed moments.
I thought people stayed.
But I know now —
I was the storm in something
that only needed calm.
I was the sharp word,
the missed feeling,
the moment I chose to be immature
over choosing you.
And I would give anything
to go back to that passenger seat
and just… listen.
The opening of it
feels like someone unlocking a room
I sealed shut.
I hear it echoing in my head
“Scar tissue that I wish you saw
Sarcastic mister know-it-all
Close your eyes and I'll kiss you, 'cause
With the birds I'll share”
And suddenly I’m back there —
seatbelt digging into my shoulder,
air rushing in through open windows,
you drumming the steering wheel,
singing like you didn’t know
you were becoming something
I’d never be able to let go of.
I wish I had been softer.
I wish I had been better at understanding.
I wish I had known
how rare it was
to be looked at like that.
Because now
every note feels like proof
that something beautiful
can exist
and still not stay —
especially when I was the one
who let it slip through my hands.
I want to listen to it again.
I really do.
But I know the truth —
If I ever pressed play,
I wouldn’t just want the song.
I’d want your headlights in my driveway.
I’d want you telling me to get in.
I’d want the road and your music
and your hand reaching across the console
like it used to.
I’d want you to take me back to your place,
like time was something we could rewind,
like I hadn’t broken the quiet
we built around each other.
Because Scar Tissue
isn’t a song I can’t sing alone.
It catches in my throat
without your voice under mine.
It was never mine.
It was ours.
And some songs
don’t survive
the person who taught you
how to hear them.
Feb 7
Feb 7, 2026 at 3:45 PM UTC
I keep thinking about the house we built —
not out of wood and nails,
but out of late nights, shared breaths,
and all the quiet ways you let me in.
And I keep replaying the moment
I struck the match without thinking
about how dry the walls already were.
Maybe if I hadn’t lit the fireplace,
the smoke wouldn’t have swallowed the ceilings,
the flames wouldn’t have learned our names.
But the truth is,
I thought loving you fast
was the same as loving you right.
I thought warmth was something you forced into a room
instead of something you protect.
You trusted me with keys
to rooms I didn’t even understand yet.
And somewhere between the doorways and the dust,
you gave me a name — baby —
like something small enough to hold,
safe enough to keep.
And you told me once, half smiling,
that it was my name — just scrambled,
like the letters of me were always meant
to find their way back to you.
I should’ve understood then
how carefully you were holding me.
Instead of walking carefully,
I ran through the halls like nothing could break.
I see it now —
how I made serious moments feel smaller,
how I made myself look like a joke
when you were trying to build something real with me.
And I hate that it took watching the roof collapse
to understand you were just trying
to give us somewhere safe to live.
You were trying to build a home.
I was just excited to be in it.
And now I’m standing outside,
trying to remember those beautiful windows
in the cold,
with smoke still in my lungs,
realizing how warm it was
when I had you to hold onto.
I loved that pretty blue door and the wood porch.
Only one of the lights worked on each side of those posts.
You knew it wouldn’t be perfect.
But you tried, and you hoped I could see it.
But I looked right past your efforts
and made myself into a priority, not a partner.
And now
some nights feel like sleeping on concrete,
like pulling a jacket tighter around myself
and wishing it was your arms instead.
Because a house isn’t just walls.
It’s the person who makes the storms quieter.
It’s the place your chest finally unclenches.
It’s knowing someone is choosing to stay
even when things get heavy.
I didn’t help make it feel like that for you.
And I’m so sorry.
I understand now that foundations
aren’t poured once and forgotten.
They’re maintained.
Checked.
Reinforced.
Protected by both people
or they crack under weight.
I know I can’t un-burn what’s gone.
I know trust doesn’t rebuild overnight.
But if you ever let me see the blueprints again —
if you ever let me hold a hammer next to you,
instead of playing with matches —
I would build slower.
Stronger.
With you, not just around you.
Because I don’t just want a house with you.
I want a home that knows both our names.
And don’t worry, I’ll stay far away from the fireplace this time.
Or honestly…
maybe we can just stick to space heaters
and emotional maturity.
Feb 5
Feb 5, 2026 at 4:09 PM UTC
You said I was almost something—
almost bright enough to keep,
almost soft enough to hold without flinching,
almost normal enough to introduce to daylight.
“Neat,”
like a sticker placed on a cracked notebook,
like something temporary,
like something you peel off when the edges curl.
And then—
like a door slamming in a house I thought I lived in—
you named me something smaller.
Something that lives in corners,
something you apologize for noticing.
I replay that moment
like a song stuck between stations,
all static and almost-melody,
wondering which version of me you saw first.
The one trying too hard to be funny?
The one memorizing your favorite colors
like they were survival instructions?
The one shrinking so you wouldn’t feel crowded?
You said friends don’t mean a thing,
and I wondered
if that meant I was nothing,
or if it meant you were already gone
before I even arrived.
Because I would have been your friend.
I would have been the person
who sits on the floor with you at 2 a.m.
counting ceiling cracks
like constellations that never got named.
But I think
you only liked me
when I was quiet enough
to fit inside your idea of harmless.
Now it’s left up to me—
to carry the echo of your voice
like loose change in my pocket,
to decide if I was ever
as wrong as you made me feel.
I walk home through streets
that don’t know what you called me,
and the sky doesn’t either,
and the wind doesn’t ask me to explain myself.
Maybe that’s the cruelest part—
the world keeps spinning
like I was never reduced to a word,
like I was never measured
and found inconvenient.
So I will leave it up to me.
To be loud when I laugh.
To take up space in doorways.
To believe that being seen
shouldn’t feel like being accused.
And if I am strange,
if I am too much,
if I am the wrong kind of unforgettable—
then I will be that
without apology,
without shrinking,
without waiting for someone
to decide if I am safe to love.
Because I am still here.
Still breathing.
Still learning how to hold my own heart
without asking permission.
And maybe one day
someone will call me “neat”
like they mean
rare
instead of
temporary.
Feb 1
Feb 1, 2026 at 3:28 PM UTC
I Broke My Own Heart First,
That’s The Part No One Wants To Hear.
I Did It Quietly,
With Shaking Hands,
With Words I Didn’t Say
And Silences I Made.
I Watched Something Alive
Bleed Out
Because I Didn’t Know How To Hold It.
My Heart Doesn’t Ache Politely.
It Clenches.
It Locks Its Jaw
Like It’s Bracing For Impact,
Like If It Stays Tense Enough
It Won’t Have To Feel
The Moment It Caves In.
It Feels Bruised From The Inside,
Like It’s Been Gripped Too Hard
For Too Long
By The Ghost Of What I Ruined.
I Told Myself I Moved On.
I Practiced Forgetting
The Way People Practice Lying—
Repetition Until It Almost Sounds Real.
I Folded My Emotions Down Small,
Pressed Them Flat,
Acted Detached,
Indifferent,
Unbothered.
I Became Very Good At Pretending
I Didn’t Care.
And Then I Saw Him.
Baggy Black Pants,
Crosses Stitched Down The Legs
Like Quiet Prayers.
A Black And Purple Shirt,
Like Bruises Learning How To Be Beautiful.
His Hair—Blond,
Longer Than I Remembered,
Softer Somehow,
Like Time Had Been Kinder To Him
Than I Ever Was.
I Didn’t Look At His Eyes.
-His Beautiful Blue Eyes-
That Was The Only Mercy I Gave Myself.
Seeing Him Was A Reminder Of Everything That Was Once Good In My Life.
I Wanted To Say,
“I Still Have The Shoes Your Mom Gave Me.”
But That’s A Strange Thing To Confess To Someone You Shattered.
Part Of Me Hoped He’d Ask Why,
That Way I Could Tell Him That They’re My Favorite Pair,
That Inside Them
There Are Tiny Roses,
Vines-
Curling Softly
Where No One Ever Looks.
But I Know I Shouldn’t Hope That He Would Talk To Me
At All.
I Shouldn’t Want Acknowledgment,
Or Forgiveness,
Or Even Permission
To Exist In His World Again.
I Shouldn’t Wish For Something
That I Broke In The First Place.
The Other Part Of Me Hoped He’d Stay Silent.
Because The Truth Is,
That’s A Question I Can’t Answer.
Not To His Face.
I Don’t Think I Could Answer Him—
Not A Question,
Not Small Talk,
Not Even Goodbye.
I Wish Someone Would Put This Puzzle Together.
I Wish They Understood That When I Hear His Name
I Don’t Flinch From Pain—
I Wince From Regret.
Because-
I.
Ruined.
It.
He Said Nothing To Me.
I Said Nothing To Him.
Instead,
I Watched Him Almost Glide To The Door,
Like The Ground Knew Him
Better Than I Ever Did.
And Just Like That—
He Was Gone.
And Thats I Realized
Those Shoes Mean More To Me Than They Should.
Not Because Of Who Gave Them To Me,
But Because They Are The Only Part Of Me
That Isn’t Actively Falling Apart.
I Wear Them To Hopefully Remind Myself I Am Loved,
Even Though All They Really Do
Is Punish Me For Remembering.
They Offer No Support.
They Aren’t Made For Bad Backs
Or Long Days.
They Don’t Comfort Anything
Except My Denial.
Every Step In Them Reminds Me
Of How Ignorant I Was,
And How Carelessly I Threw Away Something That Would’ve Held Me Up.
I’ve Tried To Buy New Shoes.
But I Always End Up
Back In These.
Like Habit.
Like Gravity.
Like Punishment I Don’t Want to Interrupt.
And Now
The Truth I Tried To Forget
Has Come Back Up—
Not Loud,
Not Dramatic,
Just Leaking..
Softly From My Eyes,
As If It Never Left-
..At All.
Maybe-
Maybe The Shoes Aren’t Just Shoes.
Maybe They’re A Shape I Memorized.
A Version Of Me I Still Step Into
Even Though It Presses Wrong Now,
Even Though It Leaves Marks
I Pretend Not To Notice.
And I Keep Asking Myself—
Terrified,
Naked In The Question—
What Happens When I Grow Out Of Them?
The Shoes His Mom Gave Me..?
What Happens When The Real Cotton-
Real Wear-
Creases Where My Feet Bent Them
To Fit A Life
That No Longer Exists?
What Happens When The Roses Inside
Are Almost Gone,
And The Vines Are Rubbed Thin By Time And Walking?
I Know They Won’t Stretch Forever.
They Won’t Wait For Me.
And One Day,
Whether I’m Ready Or Not,
I’ll Have To Take Them Off—
Not Because I’ve Healed,
But Because
Even Grief
Has A Size Limit.
Jan 23
Jan 23, 2026 at 1:27 AM UTC
Why do I plan for future conversations?
Why do I rehearse answers to questions
no one has asked yet,
for moments that haven’t arrived,
for wounds that never closed?
Why do I prepare myself
for things that have already happened?
Is it to remind myself
that time doesn’t stop—
even when I beg it to,
even when my whole body
is still kneeling on the floor
of that one moment
where everything broke?
I imagine him everywhere.
In the empty chair beside me.
In the laugh that almost escapes my mouth
before I remember
there’s no one to hear it the way he used to.
And there is no one to make me laugh like he did either.
My best friend.
The person who knew me
before I learned how to pretend I was okay.
After he died,
nothing sat right in my chest again.
Food tasted wrong.
Music felt sharp.
Silence felt louder than screaming.
People said, “It’ll get easier.”
They meant quieter.
They meant less inconvenient for them.
It’s been years,
but grief doesn’t know how to read a calendar.
It still shows up like it’s yesterday—
like I just heard the news,
like my lungs still don’t work properly,
like the world still looks unreal,
as if I’m watching my life
through cracked glass.
I try to be happy.
God, I try.
I stack smiles on top of each other
like they might hold the weight of his absence,
but they collapse every time.
So I prepare.
I try breaking down early.
I imagine school events without him—
the seats he should been in,
the jokes he would whispered,
the way he would look at me
like I’m not alone.
Like I’m not just someone in the crowd.
I cry now
so I won’t cry then.
I let it tear me apart in advance
because public grief feels illegal-
because people get uncomfortable
when you miss someone too loudly.
I practice talking about his death
like it doesn’t still choke me.
I soften my voice.
I keep my face calm.
I say the words
as if they don’t burn my mouth—
“He passed away.”
Like that phrase explains anything.
Everyone else seems to have moved on.
They laugh freely.
Nobody says his name.
They remember him like a person that just moved away
instead of a person that chose to end his path before it even started.
I am stuck.
Not because I want to be—
but because part of me
was buried with him.
They joke about suicide
like it’s just a joke,
“I’m gonna **** myself.”
Because you don’t want to take a math test?
It’s like it’s not real to other people.
But it's real.
The domino effect is also real.
One fall changes everything.
One person gone
and the rest of us
spend our lives
trying not to tip over next.
Parents ask,
“If your friends jumped off a bridge, would you?”
like it’s a clever lesson.
Like it’s funny.
They don’t understand—
friends are all I have in this world.
They are my anchors.
My proof that I exist.
-
Losing one doesn’t feel like losing someone.
It feels like someone
ripping my limbs straight from my body
and asking
“why can’t you just walk it off?”
And the cruelest part—
no matter how much awareness exists,
no matter how many posters or speeches or hashtags—
suicide is still a joke to people.
A punchline.
A rumor.
A story told too casually.
Even by those
who were in the room
when it happened.
Even by those
who watched the life leave his eyes every single day
and still learned nothing.
So I plan.
I rehearse.
I prepare myself
for a lifetime without him—
not because I’m strong,
but because I have no other choice.
And yes-
I’m still here,
still living,
still moving forward,
but the part of me that knew how to live
followed him and never came back.
Time doesn’t stop.
It never did.
But part of me did.
And it’s still waiting for him
to come back
and tell me
this was all some terrible misunderstanding.
So I plan for the future—not because I believe in it,
but because pretending he might still be there
is the only way I survive waking up without him.
Time keeps moving—cold, cruel, indifferent—
while the world keeps breathing like nothing happened,
and I remain trapped inside the life
that ended the moment his did.
If grief is love with nowhere to go,
then my chest is a grave I carry with me..
— Rehearsing his absence until it feels permanent,
loving someone so hard it outlived him,
pouring everything I am
into someone
who will never...
-
Come home.
Jan 9
Jan 9, 2026 at 3:59 PM UTC