He once told me
he wanted to die in a place
that looked like a poem.
I told him
I wanted to live
like I was one.

We were doomed by aesthetics—
too many soft glances,
not enough spine.
He held my wrist like a snow globe
but shook me too hard.

He said I was all feeling,
no logic.
As if logic ever begged anyone to stay.

Once,
he told me I reminded him
of a girl in a painting.
I should’ve asked
what happened to her
after the gallery closed.

I used to count his heartbeats
when he slept,
just to know something
inside him still worked.

I wore my prettiest dress
to the argument—
just in case
he needed reminding
that I’m not easy
to walk away from.

He looked at me
like a cliff he might leap from
or photograph.

I stopped saying his name
and started writing
in second person.
It still felt like calling him home.

Even now,
I write you into metaphors
so I can pretend
you were never real—
just a concept,
a cautionary tale,
a ghost that rhymed.

You wanted tragedy.
I wanted truth.
We got
whatever this was.

Verse 1
Took the wrong bus on a Wednesday
Wore the skirt I swore I hated
Had a blister and a sunburn
And the sky was drained and jaded

Sat by a woman with a bag of peaches
One rolled out and hit my shoe
She laughed like my aunt who died in April
And I almost said, “I miss you too”

Pre-Chorus 1
Joy didn’t knock, just drifted through—
Like a memory dressed in something new.

Chorus 1
I got sunburned in my silence
Skirt too short and pride too loud
Joy just slipped into the backseat
While I cursed at every cloud

I’m not healed, just unbothered
By the mess I’ve started to miss
I flinch at kindness lately
Like it’s something I can’t resist

Verse 2
The driver missed my stop completely
But I didn’t say a word
There’s a silence that feels sacred
When you’re scared of being heard

My phone lit up with nothing
And it still made me smile
I’m the patron saint of letdowns
But I stayed soft for a while

Pre-Chorus 2
Joy didn’t ask if I’d moved on
Just slipped back in like nothing was wrong

Chorus 2
I got sunburned in my silence
Skirt still short and ego bruised
Joy slid in like she owned the place
Like she knew I’d already lost the ruse

I’m not healed, just out of stories
So I smile and call it wise
Now I host my hauntings sweetly
Like the ghosts were always mine

Bridge
I practiced detachment like a prayer
Burned sage, lit candles, grew out my hair
But it still smelled like him in July—
Like sweat, and shame, and cherry pie

I told the moon, “I get it. You only show half,”
Then cried so hard I think I made God laugh

Mascara on my birth certificate
From rewriting who I was
Tried on forgiveness like a costume
But forgot what size I was

I kept rewriting the ending
’Til the story started biting back
Guess healing is just hiding
In a dress you thought you packed

Final Chorus
I got sunburned in my silence
Skirt still short, but now it fits
Joy returns like clockwork chaos
Pulls up laughing, never quits

I wasn’t healed, just hungry
For something I didn’t have to chase
And for once, I didn’t flinch
When the world looked me in the face

Outro
I told the moon, “I get it.”
But I was really talking to myself.

{For solo performer (mask optional). Lighting: warm, then cruel. Microphone optional. Heartbreak required.}

[Lights up. One step too close to the mic. She smiles like she’s survived something.]

POET:
I said I was shattered.

[Pause—look down, then up. Like you’re remembering it too vividly.]

And the crowd snapped.
I said I couldn’t sleep.

[Soften your voice here. Sell it. They love insomnia.]

And they nodded.
I smiled at the right moments.
Let my voice break on the word left.

[Yes. That word. Linger on it.]

Called it a poem.
Called it truth.

[Invisible margin note: Remove “pathetic.” You already said “poem.” Same effect.]

POET:
And it was—
mostly.

[Look away. Smile like a secret.]

I didn’t mention
how long I waited
for him to text back.

[In script: add something about refreshing Instagram. Delete it later.]

I said he left,
not I begged.
I said I healed,
not I still Google him sometimes
just to feel something specific.

[Optional: laugh. See who laughs back.]

[Stage note: Adjust mic stand like it’s his hand on your jaw. Let them feel it.]

POET:
I sharpened the metaphors.
Cut the clumsy parts.
Dressed the grief in short skirts and darling dresses,
and made her look like a woman
you’d want to cry over.

[Look devastating here. Not sad. Iconic.]

I didn’t lie.
I edited.

[Beat.]

Like any good writer.
Like any sad girl
with an audience.

[Margin scribble: Underline “audience.” Question whether you meant “witness.” Leave both.]

POET:
I know which line they’ll post.
I know where to pause
so it sounds like I might
still be heartbroken.

[Optional: blink back a tear. If it’s real, even better.]

So it sounds like maybe
I’m brave.

[Cut alternate ending: “So it sounds like I won.” Too desperate.]

POET:
But the truth is—
I want to be loved
perfectly.
Understood
accurately.

[Harsher here. Like it’s a confession you didn’t rehearse.]

And if I have to script my suffering
to get that—

[Pause. Look right at them.]

Fine.
Cut to black.
Cue applause.

[Lights dim. She stands still. Hands at her sides. Someone coughs. Someone claps. Someone regrets texting their ex.]

[End scene.]

I’m always watching myself
watch the world.
Even in love,
I’m already narrating the ending.

I turn silence into stanzas.
Affection into evidence.
Every kiss, a metaphor.
Every absence, a motif.

People think I’m honest.
But really,
I just edit well.

Half of what I write
never happened.
The other half
happened too hard.

I’ve written the same heartbreak
fourteen different ways.
Gave it a new name.
Gave it better dialogue.
Made him softer
so the betrayal feels worse.

I say I’m writing for me,
but I’m always picturing the line
someone might underline
and send to their ex
at 2:03 a.m.

I’ve performed pain
like a dress rehearsal—
highlighted the devastation,
downplayed the shame,
cut the part where I begged
and called it pacing.

There are poems
that made people cry
and replies I never opened.
Because if I read them,
it might mean
I was never alone in it.
And I don’t know
if that would feel better
or worse.

Some nights I write
like I’m searching for proof
that it happened at all.
That he said it.
That I felt it.
That I was the kind of girl
someone could ruin
on purpose.

And if the writing is good enough,
maybe I don’t have to go back.
Maybe I don’t have to forgive him.
Maybe I just have to
survive it beautifully.

So I sharpen the line.
I fix the form.
I leave the ending open.
I publish the ache.

And I tell myself
that counts
as closure.

The betrayal was real.
The good lines were mine.
And maybe closure
doesn’t come in paragraphs—
maybe it’s just a quiet night
I don’t turn into a poem.

He kissed me
like he was afraid to break me.
Then broke me
like he was tired
of being afraid.

Every nerve ending—
scarlet, theatrical, yours.
You touched me like a hymn
then left like a plague.
And I still
light candles.

I said I wanted closure,
but what I meant was:
hold my hair while I purge you.
What I meant was:
prove I wasn’t the only one bleeding.

I keep dreaming of you
with your wrists full of carnations,
offering them
like an apology
too beautiful to believe.

Sometimes I picture your face
on the body of someone kind.
And I call it progress.
I call it healing.
I call it
don’t look at me right now.

I see him less now.
Only in mirrors,
or firelight,
or men who say sorry
too soon.

And every time,
I forgive myself
a little more.

(finaldraftREALtrashversion.txt)

openletterdraft13: i wasn’t supposed to feel this much
// open file: confession.txt
// modified: too many times

i loved you [ ]
  and by loved i mean studied.
  and by studied i mean starved.
  and by starved i mean
  i said “i’m not hungry” with your name in my throat.

INSERT IMAGE:
  a girl in a bookstore touching the spines
  like maybe one of them will understand.

INSERT IMAGE:
  a girl standing in the moonlight,
  asking the low-flying planes if she’s forgivable.

EXPORT FEELING:
  named it something soft
  so no one would notice it burned.

he said “i don’t want to hurt you”
  which is what men say
  right before they hurt you
  with clean hands.

CTRL + ALT + DELETE
  but nothing closes—
  especially not the part
  that keeps writing poems in his grammar.

[SYSTEM ERROR: too many metaphors. Simplify?]

i called it love.  
he called it bad timing.

INSERT PASSWORD:
  seeme

ACCESS GRANTED.

NEW NOTE:
  i forgive you in lowercase.
  you don’t deserve the shift key.

open file: ruinmefinaldraft.txt  
last saved: 2:41am  
user: girlwhoknowsbetter  
status: still writing about him / (pathetic)  
attachment: none (maybe that’s the point)

INPUT: I’m fine  
OUTPUT: [you don't sound like it]

cpu temp: 100.4°F  
(she's burning again)

I bit my nails and tasted April.

biometrics: unstable  
heartbeat: typing...  
eyes: exit-wound wide, still scanning  
mouth: unsent, but spelling it with teeth  
spine: error 504  

/ BIOS update failed  
// scroll depth: dangerous  
// dopamine loop: infinite

poetry drafts: full  
dignity: low  
engagement: medium

attachments:
- crying.wav  
- voice04833.m4a (unsent)  
- screenshotwhiplash02.png  
- idontbelieveyoudraftfinalFINAL.txt

NEW GOOGLE DOC:  
  title: every version of me you didn’t love  
  sharing permissions: view only  
  editing access: revoked

collaborators:
- me (12am), me (3am), me pretending I don’t care  
- girlboss, gaslight, ghost  
- nobody asked, everyone noticed, Taylor Swift  

[CORRUPTED TEXT]  
  she said she was over it [DATA INCOMPLETE]  

attachment: none (unless you count the damage)

[404: identity not found]

everyone says i look good  
no one asks if i’m still here  
the scale goes down  
the poems get louder  
the body forgets how to stay

[repetition detected: again, again, again, again]

click to translate: desperation

plaintext:
  you’re not even that important  
  but i keep talking like you’re holy  
  what do you do with love  
  when no one wants to hold it?

click here to reveal what she meant (no one ever did)

>>> meanwhile: her stomach hurts for no reason again.

reminder: no one asked.

crash log: 3:14am, again

system flag:
  are you sure you want to feel this much?  
  [no] [too late]

[user breakdown detected]  
  INSERT MESSAGE: “i’m sorry for my part.”  
  STATUS: unacknowledged  
  TIMESTAMP: one year ago  
  attachment: olive_branch.png  

recovery mode engaged (no progress)

autosave: corrupted  
exported: only the parts that hurt

I googled "am I spiraling"  
and then took the quiz twice.

cloud access: denied  
  her incision itched—  
  but not as much as the silence.  
  the body healed.  
  the meaning didn’t.

when she stands up too fast and sees stars,  
she names them after him.

draft saved: yes  
sent: no  
read: no  
felt: yes  
ruined: absolutely

I’ve written forty-seven poems that almost said it right.

trash folder: full  
memory: still running  
love: running in background (not responding)

[DATA COLLISION]  
  she realized she never even asked for this  
  she just tried to make it mean something

CTRL + ALT + ME  
(force quit)  

> everything backed up  
> nothing backed down  
> terminal still open

I don’t want him back.
I want him wrecked.
I want him looking up my name like a prayer
he’s not allowed to say out loud.

I want him mouthing my name in traffic
like it’s a hymn
and he’s the wrong kind of sinner.
Like if he says it, I’ll appear—
but not to stay.

I want him walking past a girl
wearing my perfume
and feeling sick.
Like car crash sick.
Like pulled-over-on-the-freeway-thinking-of-me sick.

I want him to swear he saw me
in the corner of his eye
three states away.
I want him to feel watched
every time he lies about me.
I want him to dream in second person
and wake up shaking.

I want him tracing my texts with his thumb
like they’re Braille,
trying to remember how it felt
to touch someone who meant it.

Let him write poems and choke on every line.
Let him dream in my syntax and wake up stuttering.
(Let every stanza end where we did.)

I want him to tell people he’s over it—
and mean it.
Until he isn’t.
Until a Tuesday breaks him in half.

I want him to pause mid-bite
at a restaurant we never made it to.
I want the taste of me
to ruin his appetite.

I want him to see me tagged in a photo
and spiral.
Not because I look beautiful—
(which, I do)—
but because I look fine.
Like I forgave him.
Like I made it out.
Like the part of me
that waited so quietly
it started to look like faith—
then moved out
and left no forwarding address.

I want him wrecked
not because he left,
but because he almost didn’t.
Because he said forever
like he meant it,
and ran like he didn’t.

Because I waited.
Because I believed.
Because I held the door open
so long my arms shook.
And all he had to do
was walk through.