I hate Montréal.
Not gently—
not in some sad, poetic way—
I hate it like a slammed door,
like a throat raw from yelling.
The traffic is you.
Endless, suffocating noise—
words piling on words,
too fast, too loud,
spilling over themselves
until nothing means anything
except the pressure
of being stuck in it.
I can’t move.
I couldn’t move then either.
Your name catches in my throat like the toxic smog
The lights—
god, the lights—
they glare like you did,
sharp and accusing,
burning straight through me
like I owed you something
for just existing.
Every red light feels like being caught,
every green one a lie.
And the construction—
everywhere, always—
tearing the city open,
ripping it apart
just to leave it unfinished.
That’s you too.
Your voice like machinery at 6 a.m.,
uninvited, relentless,
all edge, no care
for what it breaks.
Nothing here rests.
Nothing here is safe.
Even silence feels temporary,
like it’s about to be shattered
all over again.
I walk these streets
and it’s like being followed
by something I already escaped—
your echoes in every horn,
every shout,
every crack in the pavement.
I hate this city
for remembering you
when I’m trying so hard not to.
But listen—
this isn’t yours.
Not the streets,
not the noise,
not me.
One day I’ll stand here
and hear nothing but a city.
And you—
you’ll finally be as small
as you always should’ve been.
7d ago
May 27, 2026 at 11:41 PM UTC
I will not carry the weight of your hands anymore.
Not the ones that were bruised,
not the ones that pointed,
not the ones that held our love hostage
like a leash around my throat.
You built isolation slowly —
one accusation,
one cruel word,
one vanished friendship at a time.
Until the world became
four blank walls
and your echoing voice.
You called it protection.
Called it loyalty.
Called it love.
But love does not demand
silence and pain in exchange for loyalty and safety.
Love does not cage a songbird, then punish it for forgetting how to fly.
You clipped my wings carefully,
with criticism sharpened into ritual:
“sensitive”
“stupid”
“emotional”
“Stubborn”
“too much”
“never enough.”
You carved doubt into me, like a colony of termites.
Over and over again until I apologized for taking up space.
You wanted me small.
Smaller than your anger.
Smaller than your ego.
Small enough to mistake survival
for devotion.
And when my spirit broke
under the weight of your control,
you called me “weak” and “pathetic”
as though you had not spent months
trying to break me.
But here is what you never understood:
A songbird remembers the sky
even inside a cage.
Somewhere beneath the fear,
beneath the bruises you left, even the bruises where no one could see,
beneath the nights I learned to disappear from myself, turning into something survived you.
A pulse.
A spark.
A furious little ember that refuses to die in the dark.
So take your insults,
your venom,
your anger and tears,
All your power trips,
your need to wound
anything gentle enough to love you —
and choke on the ashes.
Because I am done mistaking endurance for love.
Done mourning the version of you that never truly existed.
Done bleeding to keep myself alive in your deceiving golden cage.
The door has now bursted open.
And the songbird you have kept caged
is leaving, even though wounded.
Flying with every wing intact enough
to heal in the amber glow of the rising sun.
7d ago
May 27, 2026 at 11:37 PM UTC