How does one feel okay to discard me instinctively,
While I am left burning with the smoke that has consumed my very being?
The bellowing beast howling through the ashes,
Relentlessly telling me I was not enough.
The ink bleeding onto these pages
Is the post-mortem of how innate my solicitude was toward you.
The salt streams running down my flushed cheeks
Are proof that I would have sat with you through the bloodiest trenches.
Even though my anguish will never ricochet back to drown you,
Even though she is a blinding shooting star lighting your sky—
Is it plausible that I was still profoundly important to you?
That is the cruel, fickle trap of closure.
We are left to swirl the unanswered questions in our artistry.
She possesses a striking consciousness,
But did my devotion require the mere footnotes of your life?
She is granted the grace to be a phantom in your life,
But why was my soul the one condemned to bear your invective?
3d ago
May 31, 2026 at 10:10 PM UTC
How does one feel okay to discard me instinctively,
While I am left burning with the smoke that has consumed my very being?
The bellowing beast howling through the ashes,
Relentlessly telling me I was not enough.
The ink bleeding onto these pages
Is the post-mortem of how innate my solicitude was toward you.
The salt streams running down my flushed cheeks
Are proof that I would have sat with you through the bloodiest trenches.
Even though my anguish will never ricochet back to drown you,
Even though she is a blinding shooting star lighting your sky—
Is it plausible that I was still profoundly important to you?
That is the cruel, fickle trap of closure.
We are left to swirl the unanswered questions in our artistry.
She possesses a striking consciousness,
But did my devotion require the mere footnotes of your life?
She is granted the grace to be a phantom in your life,
But why was my soul the one condemned to bear your invective?
