I hate Montréal.
Not gently—
not in some sad, poetic way—
I hate it like a slammed door,
like a throat raw from yelling.
The traffic is you.
Endless, suffocating noise—
words piling on words,
too fast, too loud,
spilling over themselves
until nothing means anything
except the pressure
of being stuck in it.
I can’t move.
I couldn’t move then either.
Your name catches in my throat like the toxic smog
The lights—
god, the lights—
they glare like you did,
sharp and accusing,
burning straight through me
like I owed you something
for just existing.
Every red light feels like being caught,
every green one a lie.
And the construction—
everywhere, always—
tearing the city open,
ripping it apart
just to leave it unfinished.
That’s you too.
Your voice like machinery at 6 a.m.,
uninvited, relentless,
all edge, no care
for what it breaks.
Nothing here rests.
Nothing here is safe.
Even silence feels temporary,
like it’s about to be shattered
all over again.
I walk these streets
and it’s like being followed
by something I already escaped—
your echoes in every horn,
every shout,
every crack in the pavement.
I hate this city
for remembering you
when I’m trying so hard not to.
But listen—
this isn’t yours.
Not the streets,
not the noise,
not me.
One day I’ll stand here
and hear nothing but a city.
And you—
you’ll finally be as small
as you always should’ve been.
7d ago
May 27, 2026 at 11:41 PM UTC
I hate Montréal.
Not gently—
not in some sad, poetic way—
I hate it like a slammed door,
like a throat raw from yelling.
The traffic is you.
Endless, suffocating noise—
words piling on words,
too fast, too loud,
spilling over themselves
until nothing means anything
except the pressure
of being stuck in it.
I can’t move.
I couldn’t move then either.
Your name catches in my throat like the toxic smog
The lights—
god, the lights—
they glare like you did,
sharp and accusing,
burning straight through me
like I owed you something
for just existing.
Every red light feels like being caught,
every green one a lie.
And the construction—
everywhere, always—
tearing the city open,
ripping it apart
just to leave it unfinished.
That’s you too.
Your voice like machinery at 6 a.m.,
uninvited, relentless,
all edge, no care
for what it breaks.
Nothing here rests.
Nothing here is safe.
Even silence feels temporary,
like it’s about to be shattered
all over again.
I walk these streets
and it’s like being followed
by something I already escaped—
your echoes in every horn,
every shout,
every crack in the pavement.
I hate this city
for remembering you
when I’m trying so hard not to.
But listen—
this isn’t yours.
Not the streets,
not the noise,
not me.
One day I’ll stand here
and hear nothing but a city.
And you—
you’ll finally be as small
as you always should’ve been.
This is one of my works I have done 23 days after escaping my cage
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