It’s the sound of the dial tone,
a conversation ended after a one-sided solution.
The voicemail being more familiar to you
than actual words.
It’s the empty feeling that follows
the footsteps walking away from you,
the echo of closing doors remaining
a constant in place of ringing doorbells.
It’s the sensation of tears down your face,
runny nose and sore throat.
Cringing under your covers so not to burden
the strangers down the hall.
It’s the heavy silence of your room,
your indentation in the bed permanent.
having all the blankets bunched up around you
as if they could make you warm again.
It’s the thoughts that roam your head
at every point in the day,
asking when did you let yourself become
an option
when you should have been
a priority.

The clothes I wear don’t feel like home even on good days
and most days they end up at the bottom of my bed
in a pile I avoid putting away,
There is a museum of damage inside my chest and half the time
I don’t know what parts of me are on display anymore,
My lonely looks a lot like boredom
when I find myself standing in the bathroom
at 5:00 in the morning staring at my hands,
I have a bad habit of letting my emotions choke me
so that the only words spilling from my mouth
are black and blue lipped lies,
My body is a hostel ghosts like to rent when there is
free space in the attic,
The tendency to self destruct means I am willing to lie down
on your rocks like Prometheus and have you pick at me like a vulture,
I would burn your house down until I am
the only house you have left to run home to,
My breath is the condensation in the shower you forgot to get rid of
that will turn to mould if left to settle,
I can hear the pity in his voice when he calls me pretty,
there is a grave waiting for me when you are finished filling a void,
I am too lazy to figure out how to heal myself,
I have never been enough for those who did not stay.

I say your name,
and it's like the room
becomes a graveyard.
Everyone has left
and a cold emptiness
sweeps it's way in
to settle amongst
your headstone.
They all
buried you
a long time ago,
while i still pick dead flowers
to throw on top
of your grave.
My hands still grasp
at the pain in my chest
while everyone walks around me
with dry faces
that pretend
they don't see your ghost
still sitting on my shoulders.
It's like I never attended the funeral
they all threw
to cast you out,
and now i'm stuck
mourning somebody
no one wants to talk about.