you told me i’d be better off.
i told you i was fine.
we lied,
but i kept the silence warm,
kept your name pressed
into the back of my mind,
like a bruise i didn’t want to heal.

i carried the ghost of us,
let it haunt every corner,
let it seep into everything,
because forgetting felt like losing you twice.

but i’m done now.
this is the last poem i write for you,
the last time i dress my pain up
to make it look like love.
you and i are dead,
and i won’t keep trying
to breathe life into a grave.

you told me i’d be better off.
i told you i was fine.
we lied—
but now i’ll tell myself the truth.