At dinner, you carved our initials
in the table like we were kids
who couldn’t handle paper.
And when you kissed my forehead in that bar,
it felt like the closest thing to a war.

Who else deciphers you?
Who else lets you be this cruel?
You laughed like nothing ever stays,
while the room held its breath—
thousands of ways to break,
none of them mine.

You lit a cigarette, exhaled
my name, said love is just another
bruise to frame. Played Elliott Smith
until the vinyl screamed. The room went hollow.
I stayed, half-dreamed.

I’ve memorized the script you bleed,
still call it poetry, sharp and obscene.
Each line I write pulls teeth,
but silence is a grave too deep,
and I’m not ready to be buried.

The skyline’s fading into bruised blue,
and I keep writing about you.
If I ever make it big,
I’ll tell them the truth:
I sold my soul to the ghost of you.

Your eyes were glass;
your hands, stone.
You look like someone
who dies alone.

Who else watches you rot so sweet?
Who else begs to sit at your feet?
You kissed like a guillotine—
cold and clean—
said nothing’s sacred,
not even dreams.

You pressed your hands to my ribs,
sighed like a wave that knew it would drown,
said, “I wonder what breaks first—
the cage or the tide?
Does the cage crack open,
or does the tide betray?
Which one admits they wanted it that way?”

You laughed like the question wasn’t insane,
and I felt both collapse
in the back of my brain.

The tide swallowed the cage;
the cage choked the tide,
and I stood in the wreckage
of what neither survived.

As they broke, I saw it clear:
neither could win—
only disappear.

And I keep writing you,
line after line,
a hymn to the hurt
I still call mine.
If I ever make it big,
they’ll read every verse
and know I traded my best
for your worst.

Here’s to the ruins
we called our own—
the table we carved,
the war we’ve known.
Your eyes were glass;
your hands, stone.
You look like someone
who’s already gone.

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?