i hold on to pieces of people
long after they've let go of all of me.

i never know when enough is enough,
never know when optimistic hope turns into desperate denial.
or perhaps a better way to put it
is that i never want to know.

i could've let you go earlier,
at a point when it wouldn't have caused me as much pain,
when i wouldn't have spent countless nights up late thinking about you.
i could've let you go when you still meant nothing to me.
after all,
that seemed to work for you.

but no.
i clung on, like i always do.
digging my nails in and planting my feet into the ground,
thinking that i was holding onto you.
i wasn't, though.
i can see now that the only thing i ever had a grip on was my own foolishness,
my own desire to create something from nothing.
not you.
i never had you.

but i'll tell myself that at some point,
i did.
because after all the lies you told me, what's one more lie i tell to myself?

(a.m.)