Part I


It’s admirable, really,
how you’ve turned heartbreak
into performance art.

Did I just say that?
Oops—slip of the tongue,

like when you called me a mistake
and dressed it up as self-awareness.

“I’m walking away
because it’s the right thing,”
you said,
as if morality were fear
in a designer suit,
polished for the press.

No, really, I envy you.
It must take a kind of brilliance
to gaslight yourself so thoroughly,
your airtight lies
barely letting air in.

I’d ask if you believe your own stories,
but I’m scared of the answer—
being that committed to the act.

Oops, there I go again.
Was that too much?

It’s just—
you make it so easy to write about you,
like I’m bleeding out for you,
staining the sheets,
while you dream of clean hands.

You’re a character that refuses to develop.
All first act, no resolution,
the kind of person who leaves a wound
and then calls it poetry.

You’re inspiring, honestly.
So inspiring I can’t stop writing you down,
line after line after line.
You’ll live forever in these verses,
like overripe fruit
festering in a golden bowl.

Oops—
did I just compare you to a metaphor
you’ll never understand?
My bad.

I guess I’m still trying to
turn the volume down
on how you left.


Part II


It’s impressive, really,
how you can ghost yourself in real time,
leaving echoes where you should stand,
how you speak in circles so tight
you vanish into them and bow.

But don’t worry,
I’m not mad.
I just hope, someday,
someone whispers “forever”
warm enough that you finally hear
what you threw away.

You’d rather wade in puddles
and call them oceans.
It’s cute, really,
how you mistook self-sabotage for bravery.

My bad—was that mean?
I didn’t mean it.

I just think it’s sweet,
the way you told me I deserved better,
like it wasn’t your job
to be that for me.

I’m not bitter, though.
(That’s what people say, right?
When they’re lying?)

I just wonder if you ever think
about the space you left behind—
a perfectly carved absence,
still shaped like you.

You’d probably call that poetic.
You’d find a way to make my grief
a compliment to your charm.
You always did like a good metaphor,
even if it wasn’t yours to claim.

And me?
I’ll keep apologizing for what you did.
My bad-
for trying too hard to make you stay.
My bad-
for thinking love was a language
you could learn to speak.
I should’ve known
you only ever mouthed the words.

But no hard feelings.
I hope you find someone
who doesn’t mind
standing in your shadow.

I hear the view from there
is stunning—

just like watching someone leave,
and realizing you built the door
and I locked it behind you,
my bad- I guess.

I’ve learned to throw the light
where you need it most—
over sticky counters,
scuffed linoleum,
the jukebox that’s just for show.

You sip your drink and call me dazzling,
as if you don’t know
what it costs to glow like this.

There was a time I stood still,
just glass with sharp edges,
but you didn’t notice me then.
So I started spinning,
catching your attention in fragments,
hoping you’d call it grace.

Now, I tilt just right—
a thousand little versions of me
shattered across the room,
each one saying, “Look. See me. Stay.”

And you do. For a while.
But staying was never your strong suit,
was it?

You tell me I light up the room,
but you’ve never asked
what it feels like to hang here,
twisting myself into every shape
that might make you smile.

Some nights, I wonder if you notice
the sharp edges hidden in the shimmer—
how every reflection is a wound
I’ve stopped tending.

You don’t see
how the light cuts me, too,
how every spin takes more
than it gives.

No one ever asks
what it feels like
to hold everyone else’s light
and burn out in the process.

The shine is a trick,
but it works, doesn’t it?
It keeps you here
just long enough to forget
the dark corners.

The music starts again,
and I turn—
not because I want to,
but because I don’t know how to stop.

I’m fine.
I don’t think about you.
I’m over it.
Say them three times fast,
watch them turn to ash in your mouth.

I’m fine.
That’s the easiest one—
it babbles from the curve of your lips,
but drowns you just the same.

‘Fine’ is what you say
when you’re still holding the knife
and pretending the blood isn’t yours.

I don’t think about you.
Not at 2am,
cross-legged on my bedroom floor,
a Sharpie in one hand,
a grudge in the other,
crossing out filler words,
preparing for the silence that comes
when the ghosts get louder.

Not when I drop a joke in a stranger’s lap,
and it lands like a stone,
and I remember how you laughed—
not just at the joke,
but like you believed in the person who told it.

Or when headlights slice through my blinds,
speeding down my street,
and I know the driver is singing
louder than you ever did.

I’m over it. It’s over.
Over it—
as if heartbreak has an expiration date,
as if time knows how to cauterize.

I’m fine.
I don’t think about you.
I’m over it.

The holy trinity of lies,
lit like candles on an altar
I built from all the wreckage you left.
But don’t worry—
it’s just for show.

I’m fine.
I don’t think about you.
I’m over it.

And I wonder—
what will I do
when the wax runs out,
and the shadows disappear,
leaving me alone with the wreckage,
no place left to hide?

It’s impressive, really,
how you can ghost yourself in real time,
leaving echoes where you should stand,
how you speak in circles so tight
you vanish into them and bow.

But don’t worry,
I’m not mad.
I just hope, someday,
someone whispers “forever”
warm enough that you finally hear
what you threw away.

You’d rather wade in puddles
and call them oceans.
It’s cute, really,
how you mistook self-sabotage for bravery.

My bad—was that mean?
I didn’t mean it.

I just think it’s sweet,
the way you told me I deserved better,
like it wasn’t your job
to be that for me.

I’m not bitter, though.
(That’s what people say, right?
When they’re lying?)

I just wonder if you ever think
about the space you left behind—
a perfectly carved absence,
still shaped like you.

You’d probably call that poetic.
You’d find a way to make my grief
a compliment to your charm.
You always did like a good metaphor,
even if it wasn’t yours to claim.

And me?
I’ll keep apologizing for what you did.
My bad-
for trying too hard to make you stay.
My bad-
for thinking love was a language
you could learn to speak.
I should’ve known
you only ever mouthed the words.

But no hard feelings.
I hope you find someone
who doesn’t mind
standing in your shadow.

I hear the view from there
is stunning—
just like watching someone leave,
and realizing you built the door.

It’s admirable, really,
how you’ve turned heartbreak
into performance art.

Did I just say that?
Oops—slip of the tongue,

like when you called me a mistake
and dressed it up as self-awareness.

“I’m walking away
because it’s the right thing,”
you said,
as if morality were fear
in a designer suit,
polished for the press.

No, really, I envy you.
It must take a kind of brilliance
to gaslight yourself so thoroughly,
your airtight lies
barely letting air in.

I’d ask if you believe your own stories,
but I’m scared of the answer—
being that committed to the act.

Oops, there I go again.
Was that too much?

It’s just—
you make it so easy to write about you,
like I’m bleeding out for you,
staining the sheets,
while you dream of clean hands.

You’re a character that refuses to develop.
All first act, no resolution,
the kind of person who leaves a wound
and then calls it poetry.

You’re inspiring, honestly.
So inspiring I can’t stop writing you down,
line after line after line.
You’ll live forever in these verses,
like overripe fruit
festering in a golden bowl.

Oops—
did I just compare you to a metaphor
you’ll never understand?
My bad.

I guess I’m still trying to
turn the volume down
on how you left.

I’d spell out the way
you let people love you halfway,
then blamed the empty rooms
on their leaving.

You build doors without hinges,
frames for windows
opening only to emptiness.

You call it safety,
but it feels like a monument to loneliness—
just another way
to keep your hands clean.

You ran
because you were terrified
of what it might mean
to finally be seen—

to stand still long enough
for someone to trace your outline
and call it human.

You thought moving fast enough
might blur the edges,
stretch you thin enough
to disappear—

a shadow so fragile
it couldn’t hold its shape.

It didn’t need to cut deep;
it pressed slow on your softest spot,
and laughed.

And maybe you laughed, too,
because isn’t that easier
than letting someone stay?

Isn’t it safer
to leave the door cracked,
watch them slip away,

than risk them staying long enough
to watch the walls crack,
the beams snap under the weight
of all you’ve hidden?

I poured champagne on the garden,
just to see what wouldn’t grow.
A rebellion disguised as art,
too small to leave a bruise.

The idea felt poetic—
a confession spilled like incense,
settling heavy in the soil,
thicker than regret.

By dusk, the dirt turned sticky,
a graveyard for good intentions,
gold on a barren altar,
pearls drowning in sweetness turned sour.

A bee circled the spill,
its wings trembling,
caught between greed and retreat.

I wanted to tell it, Save yourself.
But even the flowers had given up,
their petals folded like apologies
too late to matter.

I stood barefoot in the dirt,
watching bubbles rise slick
against the roots of something already dying.

At least the garden refused me honestly—
its silence more forgiving
than any answer you gave me.

I laughed at how pathetic it felt—
a toast to nothing,
a promise unraveling,
luxury offered to the lifeless.

I’ll wake up tomorrow
and call it nothing,
but the smell of champagne
will linger on my palms.

And you’ll linger, too,
where regret always does—
settled deep in the soil,
refusing to grow.