I brewed the coffee more for you than for me,
A ritual dressed in honesty.
The mug you left — I held it near,
Like touching it might make you appear.
I wrote you notes you never read,
Then tucked them back beneath my bed.

I set your place, then stared at mine,
As if routine could rewind time.
I’d hum your songs to fill the space,
Mistaking ache for your embrace.
But holding on can blur the view —
I feared what leaving meant was true.

And so today, I break that thread,
Not out of hate, but love instead.
I’ll drink for one, I’ll clear your cup —
It’s not moving on, it’s waking up.

I didn’t notice myself changing—
until I did.
One day,
my laugh didn’t echo the same.
My eyes
stopped believing as quickly.

Childhood slipped off
like a sweater in summer
quietly,
forgotten on a chair.

Dreams I swore I’d chase
now gather dust
in unopened folders
and fading notebooks.

The mirror grew honest.
My knees, less kind.
Time,
less patient.

I miss how time once felt—
limitless.
Like I could waste it
and it would wait for me.

Now,
every birthday feels like
a sigh I didn’t mean to let out.

But here I am—
still unfolding,
still becoming,
even if it’s slower now.

Because youth doesn’t vanish,
it just leaves quietly,
with soft hands
and no apology.

i forget, sometimes,
that everyone has their own world
just as full as mine.

that ******* the bus,
she always has blue glitter on her eyelids,
she has someone
she cries over
when it rains.

and that boy,
who laughs a little too loud in the hallways --
he has a grandmother
she calls him every sunday.
he has a playlist
that he never shares.

i forget
that lives unfold around me,
not just mine.
no one else's life
pauses
just because im not
in the same room as them.
they're full of joy,
grief,
midnight cravings,
and rom com dreams
that don't star me.

but tonight?
the warm city lights
look like conversations
ill never hear --
and i remeber.

I don’t know what.
Or, rather—
the matter of fact: why?
Am I pretending?

A pretty dosing,
imposing
i'mposter syndrome
in stolen lip gloss and rope burns.

Don’t ask me to put on these masks.
I’m done with it.

Every thought is scrutinized.
Every meal, a moral panic.
“Every time I eat another animal, you spank my *** hard.”
(Not that I want to eat an animal
every time I want a spanking—
no.
But I do want a spanking.
And not the guilt buffet.)
Mind: Reported.

"*******"
Mind: Swagger.

Am I my brain’s pet?
Or is it mine?

Russes
is a nice dog name.

Am I becoming a killing machine?
No.
I’d have to work out more.
That’s extroverted thinking.

Inside?
What are you?

An amoeba.
Shapeshifting.
Gelatinous.
Unapologetically not solid.

Enough!
You are dead!

Come on,
I’m not wallowing—
I just want to cry
after so long
in *******
with no aftercare.

I miss you so much, Bubba.

I am
a ******* *******.
I feel
maniacal.

Do you know
you can give yourself a hug?
It feels so good.

I’m asking,
“What’s that you do again?”

A shirt.
Curiosity outweighed my fears.
Isn’t there a cat
who got killed because of it?

I met a woman
Who taught me
How to find someone
I used to be