Our love lives in broken hearts,
in buried bones and splintered starts.
Midnight cries that stitched the dark,
promising we’d never lose our spark.
Our love was where the stars would freeze,
holding their breath just to watch us breathe.
Hand in hand, eye to eye—
I didn’t know losing you
would feel like watching the sky die.
Since I lost you—
lost the warmth, the holding tight,
the romance, the soft-lit nights—
I’ve been walking through a world
that doesn’t feel quite right.
A hollow chest, a fading light,
a shadow wearing me in spite
of everything I used to be.
I feel the point cut into me,
like maybe I can’t survive this plea
without me and you,
without our “we,”
without something pulling me back
from stepping into the street,
from drifting into the quiet heat
where silence swallows every beat.
Someone to tell me
I’m worth the breath I take.
But this poem isn’t about me.
It’s not about the things I break
when my voice shakes
and my ribs ache.
It’s about me and you—
our love,
the one that burned so bright
it made the sun retreat from sight.
Through distance,
through yelling,
through nights that cracked our fragile seams,
through tears that drowned our fragile dreams,
through pain that dropped us
to our knees
until sunrise found us
still begging,
still bleeding,
still trying to believe—
we found our way again.
We found our way
back to each other’s eyes,
back to saying I love you
in this dawn
and the next,
and the next—
a vow whispered
into the bruised morning light,
a promise made
even when we weren’t alright.
Again and again,
I threw myself into every love
I thought I knew—
but every one of them
was a ghost of you,
a pale echo,
a lie I grew
to fill the space
where your truth once flew.
Because the love I need
is right in front of me.
The passion in my soul,
the thing I yearn for endlessly—
it’s you.
It’s always been you.
And it breaks me
to know you’re holding me
while I talk about someone else,
breaks me to know
I cracked your heart
just by forgetting
what was already mine to hold.
But listen—
your heart can shatter
a thousand times
and I will mend it
a thousand more.
I’ll glue it,
tape it,
stitch it with my own breath.
I’ll hold it together
with my bare hands
until they’re raw,
until they’re torn,
until they’re nothing but proof
that I stayed
through every storm.
Because this is where we are—
young, unsure,
maybe fighting for nothing,
maybe fighting for everything.
But it will never be nothing.
We will go through storms,
through heartbreak,
through nights that leave
tissues on the floor
and silence in our throats.
We will go through
marriage,
divorce,
rebuilding,
breaking,
falling apart,
finding each other
in the ruins again.
And still—
I will remember you.
Because you taught me
what it feels like
to be precious to someone,
to see rainbows
in blue skies and weary eyes,
to see sunshine
in the middle of a storm,
to see myself
through the way you held me
when I couldn’t hold anything at all.
And even if the world
forgets our names,
I won’t.
Not in this life,
not in the next,
not in any dawn
we ever rise into—
together or apart.
I kept every shade of us close not far
even after the world grew duller
your name is my favorite color
Adam
6d ago
May 28, 2026 at 5:26 PM UTC
I’ve broken your heart and you’ve broken mine,
again and again in that same jagged line.
We keep returning to the fire we made,
calling it toxic so the truth can fade—
but it never felt toxic to love you this way,
it felt like a storm we were doomed to obey.
We held something burning, too sharp to survive,
a love that cut deeper the more it stayed alive.
And now we pretend none of it mattered at all,
like forgetting is easier than watching us fall.
When I leave, I lose my last small chance
to show you I meant every step of this dance.
I lose the moment to say what I hide,
that loving you hollowed me out inside,
that every goodbye was a quiet collapse,
a slow-motion breaking I couldn’t unwrap.
We walk on eggshells around what’s true,
but you were my sun, my moon, my view.
You saw the parts of me no one should see—
the trembling, the guilt, the unraveling me.
You saw the ache I tried to disguise,
the storm behind my steady eyes.
You held me through every heartbreak death,
every goodbye that stole my breath.
But maybe those breakups were whispered signs,
little warnings carved between the lines—
asking who really stands with me,
who I want in every memory,
who I think of when the world turns bleak,
whose name I whisper when I’m too tired to speak.
And when I leave, I’m sorry if I don’t say
how much I love you in the slipping-away.
I’m sorry if silence becomes what I wear,
if distance makes me feel like I’m not there.
Hear me anyway, through the thinning air—
you’re my heart, my soul, my care.
If I leave and you forget my name,
just remember the pieces before the flame:
the hugs, the whispers, the secrets shared,
the nights we yelled because we cared,
the trembling calls, the shaking fall,
every moment that built this all.
Remember the nights we swore we’d stay,
even when dawn pulled us both away.
Remember the promises whispered in fear,
the “don’t leave yet” you needed to hear.
Remember the way our shadows bent,
two broken shapes that still somehow meant
more than the endings we tried to outrun,
more than the damage already done.
Because all I can say, with this trembling spine,
is you broke my heart and I shattered yours in kind.
And maybe this is my final chance
to say I love you
in this ruined,
ashen,
eternal
dance.
May 23
May 23, 2026 at 1:24 PM UTC
Two years since we met,
two years since fate whispered, “This one — don’t forget.”
And maybe to the world it’s nothing, just a date you could erase,
but you were the first person who ever felt like home in a place.
From the first day, it was strange — like I’d known you forever,
like every broken part of me finally fit together.
You were the one I ran to when I wanted to disappear,
the one who made the world feel quieter just by being near.
And now I’m leaving — not for a night, not for a week,
but far enough that the distance feels like something we won’t beat.
A plane will take me from the only person who ever stayed,
and I’m terrified that once I’m gone, the memories we made
will fade for you faster than they fade for me,
that you’ll move on while I’m stuck replaying what used to be.
Maybe I won’t get on that plane — maybe I’ll break down, maybe I’ll cry,
but I know I have to go, even though I don’t know why.
I keep hoping for a reason to stay, a sign, a miracle, a plea,
but all I have is this fear that you’ll stop needing me.
I won’t just miss the good days, the jokes, the snacks, the fun,
I’ll miss the yelling, the stupid fights, the nights we both swore we were done.
I’ll miss the angry texts, the late-night calls, the way we always found our way back,
because somehow our friendship survived every storm, every silence, every crack.
I love you most because you stayed —
even when I pushed you away, even when I was afraid.
You never left, not once, not ever,
and I don’t know how to be that strong from across the country forever.
I promise I’ll stay for you —
birthdays, summers, anything you need me to do.
But the truth is, saying goodbye will break me in a way I can’t defend,
because two years with you felt like a lifetime, and I don’t want that lifetime to end.
You saved me from the darkest pits I’ve ever been thrown into,
you held me up to the light when I couldn’t see anything but blue.
You brought me back to myself even when I screamed through every fight,
even when I swore I didn’t need you — you still stayed through every night.
I’ll miss the late-night talks, the hallway walks, the waiting, the laughing, the being late,
the way we talked about nothing until nothing felt like fate.
I’ll miss the way you rolled your eyes, the way you knew when I was lying,
the way you said “I’m fine” even when both of us knew you were quietly crying.
And now I’m leaving all of that behind, and the truth I can’t outrun or bend
is that I’m terrified the distance will turn “best friend” into “someone I used to call a friend.”
I’m scared you’ll find new people, new jokes, new memories without me,
and I’ll be stuck replaying ours like a movie only I still see.
When I get out there — new house, new sky, new fear —
will you still want to talk to me? Will you still want me near?
Will we still call, still laugh, still try, still fight for what we had at the start,
or will we slowly drift apart, piece by piece, heart by heart?
And the saddest part is this:
I already miss you, and I haven’t even left yet.
I’m grieving a goodbye I haven’t said, a future I can’t forget.
It’s been two years since I met my best friend —
let’s make it three, let’s make it ten, let’s make it to the end.
May 22
May 22, 2026 at 3:41 PM UTC
The start of your story wasn’t perfect,
but Mama, that’s OK —
because the bond we share is something
no storm could ever wash away.
A mother. A daughter.
Two hearts tied before I could speak.
In the beginning, you held me close,
your plans for me soft and sweet.
Life was supposed to bloom for us,
a garden you dreamed we’d grow.
But money slipped like sand through fingers,
and the world turned cold and slow.
You still bought me tiny pajamas,
even when bills stacked to the sky.
You tried to smile through breaking days,
but Mama, I could hear the cry
you hid behind your tired eyes.
And then you left —
I was only three.
You placed me in Grandma’s arms,
your own mommy holding me
because you couldn’t hold yourself
through the weight of everything.
That’s where the story starts to ache,
where pages wrinkle,
where hearts break.
Time kept moving,
as time always does.
You found your love,
you found your friends,
but did you feel me in those hugs
you gave to others
while I waited for yours
through screens and static ends?
We talked every day —
and I clung to every call.
But later I learned the truth:
how you watched me grow through Wi‑Fi walls,
how you whispered to the dark at night
that it felt so mean,
so wrong,
to mother a child
through a signal never strong.
Still, Mama —
I loved you.
I love you now.
That love never learned to fade.
It stayed.
It stayed.
It stayed.
Then came your boy —
a windy little toy,
a spark of joy
who spun and spun
like he was chasing the sun.
But even then,
you still had me —
your far‑away one.
you drifted toward the darker side,
and warned me not to follow.
“Be better than I ever was,”
you said, voice cracked and hollow.
But Mama —
your boy was kind.
He carried light inside his chest.
Even broken children shine the brightest
when they’re trying to do their best.
Then time marched on,
as time will do.
Every book must close,
every chapter must begin,
every story must break
before it bends back into you.
Your love —
the one you trusted —
fell apart.
And I know it shattered you,
because you had a little girl then,
a newborn heart
who didn’t understand
why Mama cried in the dark.
Three babies now
looked up at you,
calling you Mommy
from different worlds.
One was far away —
that one was me —
crying into pillows,
wishing you were beside me,
wishing we could cry together
in the same dark room,
under the same moon,
instead of me whispering
“I miss you”
to a glowing phone screen.
The other two
were in your arms,
pulling at your clothes,
your hair,
your heart —
driving you wild,
driving you tired,
driving you into shadows
you didn’t deserve.
Depression wrapped around you
like a heavy winter coat
you couldn’t take off.
And still,
you mothered.
You tried.
You broke.
You rose.
Mama —
you learned.
You grew.
You found your strength again.
You realized you didn’t need perfection,
you didn’t need the world’s approval,
you didn’t need the money.
You just needed your children —
even the ones who made your nose runny
from crying
as you watched them grow.
And somehow,
you rose.
You carried the weight —
heavy, but lighter than before,
not quite a feather,
but something you could hold
without breaking anymore.
And now I’m almost there.
Just a few more months
until I’m standing where
we always dreamed I’d be —
back in your arms,
back in your story,
back where I was meant to be
since I was three
and you had to leave.
The start of your story wasn’t great,
but Mama —
that’s OK.
Because the ending?
We’re writing that together.
May 17
May 17, 2026 at 9:16 PM UTC
The earth trembles low beneath my feet,
a warning drum, a broken beat.
The sinkhole opens, soft and deep,
the sound of loss I always keep.
Each time I reach to pull you near,
the ground gives way beneath my fear.
I try to lift you from the fall,
but I go down with you through it all.
And then they ask why walls I build,
why every feeling stays so stilled,
why my own heart is locked away,
why I grow quieter by the day.
They never saw the shifting land,
the way it crumbled in my hand,
the way the earth refused to stay
beneath my feet when I gave way.
Again I try to make you smile,
to walk beside you for a while,
but every step cracks open ground—
the same old fault, the same old sound.
So tell me how I save your soul
when mine is paying every toll.
How do I make your darkness light
when mine keeps stealing all my sight?
Maybe fate wrote me this role,
the one who breaks to make you whole.
Maybe saving you is just the thread
that pulls me thin until I’m shed.
Maybe I’ll never truly know
why some climb out and some sink low,
why some are lost beneath the stone,
why some return and some die alone.
And maybe bells around my ear
aren’t warnings—just the weight of fear,
the echo of a heart that tries
to rise but trembles when it cries.
They say that everyone feels this,
but not the guilt inside my chest—
the ache that whispers I’m to blame
for every soul I couldn’t claim.
Explain it, please—why can’t I be
the one who saves both you and me?
Why must I break to lift your hand,
why must I fall to help you stand?
Who am I meant to rescue when
I lose myself again, again?
Who am I meant to guide when I
can barely breathe, can barely try?
I press my palms against your chest—
not to revive you, just to rest,
to tell myself I’m not your heart,
not built to play that sacred part.
The earth still trembles under me,
the sinkhole waits so patiently.
It knows my name, it knows my sound,
it knows the weight that pulls me down.
And at the edge I stand once more,
the same old cliff, the same old floor.
Will I step back or tumble through?
Will I save me—or only you?
I never know which way I’ll lean,
which truth will rise, which fear will mean
the difference between fall or flight,
between my shadow and your light.
But still the ground keeps calling me,
and still I answer, endlessly,
with every piece I have to give—
the ones I need to simply live.
now I need to be the kid
they tame in the
the Sinkhole beneath my name
May 16
May 16, 2026 at 2:16 PM UTC
Let them go.
Just let them go.
Let them walk away while you miss them head to toe.
Let them go —
the ones you held like breath, the ones you prayed would stay,
the ones who fade so slowly it hurts more every day.
I hold these grudges against you, against your will,
and still,
I’d walk across ocean seas,
I’d walk across who I was meant to be,
just to keep you near me.
But when you slip, when you fall, when you’re wrong,
I push you aside —
and I’m sorry.
I’ve been sorry for so long.
Mistakes were made,
and our friendship frayed,
a slow decline, a quiet fade.
It’s not even friendship —
you’re my soul mate,
the one I pictured waiting at Heaven’s Gate.
But even that feels cruel to say,
because I want you to live,
to breathe,
to stay.
Again and again I try,
but you mess up, and so do I.
And my mistake — the biggest one — was making you
burned by the sun.
But you are my sun,
my only one,
the light I look for when the night is done.
You’re the one that when I open my eyes,
I hope I see your light rise.
And I’m sorry that you feel this way.
I’m sorry I broke down your mistakes
and broke you down along the way.
I pushed you around,
I made you drown,
and I’m sorry —
God, I’m sorry —
for every time you ran to me when I cried,
every time you rushed to my heart when I died,
and I wasn’t there for you in return.
I let you burn.
That’s all I have to say,
and I know it doesn’t fix the past,
but can I try?
Can I try at last
to mend the good I ever held,
to lift the weight that made you melt,
to undo the harm I made you feel,
to let your broken edges heal?
You have your guilt,
your quiet debt,
your regrets you can’t forget —
but you’re not in debt to me.
I owe you everything you gave:
the tears,
the years,
the light you saved.
You gave me more time when I felt I shouldn’t be here,
when I felt I couldn’t stay.
You gave me purpose,
and I gave you pain,
and now I owe you something I can’t repay.
I know I can be cunning,
shoving you out of the way,
and I’m sorry.
I love you every single day.
You’re my soul mate,
my constant,
my undoing,
my proof that even when I’m ruined,
I can rise again and again
because you showed me that if it’s not bad,
if it’s not broken,
I want to be with you in the end.
I want you to hold me as I take my last breath,
to tell me it’s time to rest —
but I know that’s not fair.
I know I pushed away the one who gave me more than enough,
the one I loved too rough.
So I’ll stop singing.
I’ll stop begging you to stay.
All I’m gonna say
is maybe tomorrow will be a better day —
even if you’re far away,
even if I lose you slow,
even if letting go
is the last thing I ever wanted to know.
With my soul mate —
you so let them go
May 9
May 9, 2026 at 4:04 PM UTC
i’m still waiting—
god, i’m still waiting—
like the clocks all cracked and froze,
like every second that I breathe
just circles back to what you chose.
you turned away, you shut your eyes,
you left me drowning in the lies
you whispered soft, then let decay,
and I’ve been standing here since that day
with nothing but the weight you made
and all the truths you never said.
i’m waiting for you to turn around,
to let the truth escape your throat,
to feel the sting of what you wrote
across my ribs with every blow,
the things you swore I’d never know.
you break apart, but never right—
you crack in shadows, out of sight,
you crumble where it doesn’t count,
a hollow, useless, quiet mount
of almost‑guilt and almost‑pain
that never reaches me again.
so I hold my breath,
close my eyes,
and pray for once you’ll drop disguise
and meet my gaze without retreat,
without the practiced, calm deceit.
not guilt, not sorrow, not regret—
but pain you haven’t spoken yet,
the kind that proves you understand
the blood you left upon my hand,
the weight I carry into dawn,
the truth I wake and choke upon.
i’m waiting for the words you owe,
the ones you’ve never let me know.
years of damage, years of ache,
years of watching pieces break—
you say you feel remorse, you do,
but saying isn’t seeing through.
so show it, prove it, let it bleed,
or let me face the awful need
to wonder if I’ve lost my mind,
if I’ve gone blind, if I’m confined
to grieving wounds you never weighed,
to chasing ghosts you never made.
your guilt rolls like a stone downhill,
a cold, unstoppable, crushing will,
and I keep running from its weight
because without those words, that fate
will flatten me against the ground
before you ever make a sound.
still I stand here, still I wait,
still I linger at the gate
of everything you won’t confess,
the truth you dodge, the mess you press
into my ribs with every breath,
a slow‑burn ache that feels like death.
and every day I tell myself
today you’ll take that truth off shelf,
today you’ll let your armor fall,
today you’ll face the cost of all
the nights I shattered at your feet,
the moments you refused to meet
the breaking in my shaking spine,
the ruin you pretended fine.
but days keep passing, thick with dust,
and silence grows a kind of rust
that eats the hinges of my heart
and tears the softer parts apart.
I swallow ache like bitter wine,
pretend the waiting’s by design,
pretend I’m strong, pretend I’m whole,
pretend I’m not a begging soul
who stands in ruins you ignore,
still hoping you’ll unlock a door
you sealed the day you walked away
and left me here to rot and stay.
the nights get longer, sharp and cold,
the memories rot, the edges mold,
and still I stand, a shadowed shape
you carved and left without escape.
I trace the outline of your sin,
the place where all the hurt begins,
the echo of the things you said,
the ghosts that gather in my head.
I wait for you to turn and see
the wreck you made of what was me,
to feel the tremor in my bones,
to hear the cracking undertones
of everything I tried to save
before you pushed it in the grave.
everything inside me snaps,
the world collapses in its gaps,
and all I feel is this decline—
a weakening heart that isn’t mine,
a devotion twisted into grief,
a ruin seeking its relief.
so yes—
I’ll stand here every day until I die,
beneath a truth you won’t deny,
waiting for the words you owe,
the ones you’ll never let me know:
I’m sorry.
and the truth is—
so am I.
because I’m still waiting,
still breaking,
still aching,
and I don’t know how to stop.
May 9
May 9, 2026 at 3:57 PM UTC
I’m leaving — and you swear it means I’m choosing
to watch your world collapse, like I want to see you losing.
But I’m only walking toward the dream I buried deep beneath your rules,
the one you mocked as childish, the one you called a fool’s.
You say I’m cold, ungrateful, cruel —
but you don’t see the way you pull
my ribs apart with every plea,
the way you weaponize your need for me.
You solved my storms, you held my hands,
you taught me how to breathe and stand,
but now you clutch my shadow tight
and call it love to dim my light.
I’m leaving, I’m gone, I’m out —
and every step is soaked in doubt.
My friends, my family, every face,
the ghosts that shaped my childhood place —
I’m losing all of them at once,
and still you say I’m wrong.
You say I’m breaking everything,
but you’re the one who held me back so long.
You tell me “go find happy,” then you beg me not to try,
you say you’ll be alone without me — but you never ask me why
my lungs collapse inside this house,
why silence tastes like rust,
why every time I reach for hope
you grind it into dust.
Why do you hate me for it?
Why does my dream offend you so?
Why does every time I rise
become another reason not to go?
These scars you see on me — they’re maps of where I’ve been,
but you keep tearing them back open just to pull me in again.
You say it’s out of love, but love should never feel like chains,
should never make me bleed to prove
I’m worthy of your pains.
I’ve tried to tell you what I want,
I’ve tried to show you who I am,
but you only hear the child you raised,
not the grown one with a plan.
Do you really love me if you’d rather keep me small?
Do you love me head to toe, or just the version that would crawl?
Do you care about my heartbeat, or the comfort of my stay?
Do you want me for my future, or the child you shaped from clay?
You didn’t mean to ruin me — I know that wasn’t your intent.
But love can turn to shackles when it’s tangled with resentment.
Accident or not, the truth is carved in bone:
I have to go. I have to leave.
I have to find my home.
This house has been a cage to me since I was barely grown,
and every time I reached for light, you tightened what you owned.
You say you’re scared of losing me,
but you already lost the child you knew —
I grew into someone aching
for a world beyond your view.
Still — I loved the way you held me,
the lullabies you used to hum,
the warmth that wrapped around me
when the world felt cold and numb.
I loved the way you roared at me,
the way you taught me right from wrong,
the way you made me feel like I
belonged to something strong.
But love that cages isn’t love —
it’s fear dressed up as care.
It’s wanting me beside you
more than wanting me somewhere.
And that’s why this is killing me —
to thank you as I go,
to love you while I’m leaving,
to break the only home I know.
But I am leaving.
Not to hurt you.
Not to spite you.
Not to run.
I’m leaving
because staying
means I’ll never
become anyone.
I’m leaving
because breathing
in this house
has come undone.
I’m leaving
because loving you
should not require
losing me.
I’m leaving
because finally
I’m choosing
who I’m meant to be.
And maybe someday you’ll forgive me,
or maybe you’ll stay cold as stone —
but I’m walking toward the life I dreamed,
toward the place I’ll call my own.
I’m leaving my home —
the one that raised me,
the one that caged me,
the one that loved me,
the one that blamed me.
I’m leaving
because I have to.
Because I want to.
Because it’s time.
And though you hate me for it now,
this leaving is still mine.
May 9
May 9, 2026 at 3:54 PM UTC
If one day I die,
I’ll leave one question echoing in the sky —
why.
Why did you twist my softness into shame,
why did you speak my name
like it was something you regretted saying,
why did you turn my heart into a place
you practiced breaking.
Why did your hands become the claws
that tore through every fragile pause,
why did you scratch me down to bone
and call it “teaching me to stand alone,”
why did you watch me fall apart
and still insist you had no part.
I tried — God knows I tried —
to stay gentle even as pieces of me died.
I tried to be your friend after every blow,
after every time you told me “let it go,”
after every bruise you swore was “just a joke,”
while I swallowed the hurt like smoke
and pretended it didn’t choke.
You pushed me closer to the edge each year,
and now the cliff is all that’s near.
The ground is gone beneath my feet,
the sky is cold, the air is bleak,
and all I hear is your heartbeat’s drum
whispering I don’t care if you succumb.
If one day I die,
tell the ones who stayed that I loved them —
that’s no lie.
But love never patched the wounds you made,
never softened the nights I prayed,
never dried the tears I hid in my bed
when fear kept screaming in my head
that one day I’d vanish without a trace
and no one would miss my place.
Maybe by the time you read this,
that fear already came true.
So if I die, don’t cry for me.
It wasn’t you —
unless it was.
And if it was, you’ll feel it in the hush
of a house that breathes easier without my touch,
in the smile you wear now that I’m not near,
in the way your world feels lighter
when I disappear.
And I’ll be somewhere above,
where joy is supposed to rise like a dove,
but I’ll still be crying in that holy air,
because I never learned what it meant
to be held with care.
But there’s more —
more than the wounds you carved before.
There were nights I begged the dark to stay,
because daylight meant another day
of walking past your sharpened eyes,
of shrinking under whispered lies,
of hearing laughter when I broke,
of breathing through the words you spoke
that clung to me like smoke.
There were mornings I woke up sore
from battles I never asked for,
from carrying the weight of blame
you swore was mine to claim.
There were hours I spent trying to be
the version of me you’d let be free,
but every time I reached for light
you dragged me back into the night.
So when I die —
not if, but when —
when breath leaves me like a whispered sin,
when my eyes close and won’t open again,
will you search for me in the darkened night,
or sleep just fine without my light.
Will you ache for me, or will it be clear
that I was never truly wanted here.
Remember this when I’m gone:
every tear you ignored, every fear you spawned,
every time you stepped on the pieces of me
and called it love or destiny.
Remember the way you turned away
the moment I began to fray,
the way you smiled when I fell apart,
the way you never offered heart.
And remember, too,
the quiet cheers you gave
the day I finally slipped away.
One day
May 1
May 1, 2026 at 5:02 PM UTC
I still feel your hands on top of me,
that crushing weight, that gravity.
The way you held me to the floor
like I was nothing anymore,
like breath and choice and voice and plea
were things you could erase from me.
I feel the grabs, the threats, the fear,
the way your shadow lingered near.
Just seeing my reflection now
makes dread crawl up my spine somehow.
It’s sickly funny — cruel and cold —
how loud I begged, how tight I rolled,
how many times I whispered no,
yet you still answered with a blow.
You heard me —
but you chose the sin.
You heard the tears
and dug them in.
You never loved,
you never cared —
you only left me split and scared.
Now I’ve got phantom pain that clings,
not missing limbs but missing things —
like trust, like sleep, like who I’d been
before you crawled beneath my skin.
My heart still beats,
but not for me;
it’s just a bruise
that learned to be.
I feel the claws you left behind,
the twisting of my breaking mind.
I feel the hurt beneath my eyes,
the kind that never really dies.
I feel it all — the sting, the stain —
the echo of your hands, your name.
I hate the memories you made,
the way they never seem to fade.
Yet still I smile, still pretend,
still call you “family,” call you “friend.”
Are you my best friend —
or the best at playing kind,
the best at hurting,
the best at poisoning my mind?
Because the truth is carved in bone:
I could never trust you.
Not when I was young.
Not now I’m grown.
Every shower turns to dread,
I stand an hour,
steam around my head,
waiting for the mirror’s face
to show a girl untouched by grace.
But I feel your hands again,
the weight, the heat, the choking then.
I feel the hate you pressed in me,
the rot you taught me not to see.
And worse — it spread.
To those who knew,
who saw the signs,
who watched me bruise,
who never spoke,
who never cared,
who let me drown
while they just stared.
I hate them too.
I could be so much farther now
if not for you —
and here’s the vow
I never say but always feel:
the worst part is
I still can’t heal.
Not because I want your chain,
but because you trained me
to remain.
Because leaving feels like breaking bone,
and breaking means I’m still alone.
So I lie down,
take the blows,
take the hurt nobody knows.
And it burns so deep
because you’re not here —
but I feel you everywhere.
Even if you rotted low,
six feet under, cold below,
I’d feel your ghost upon my skin,
your shadow crawling back within.
I wish I could tell my mother,
but I don’t want her heart to break.
I don’t want anyone to see
the ruin you helped me remake.
So I let the silence grow,
let the pain take root below.
I know the things that help —
but I don’t move,
I don’t speak,
I just let the darkness leak.
And every time I try to rise,
the memory drags me down again,
and that is why I live with this —
this phantom pain.
May 1
May 1, 2026 at 5:01 PM UTC