This might be my last poem,  
or the last of me,  
I haven’t told anyone yet,  
but I’ve lost hope, in you,  
in us,  
in what we could’ve been.  

I want to cry.  
I am crying,  
tears soaking the screen  
where I text you again,  
knowing you won’t reply.  

If only I had known  
from the start,  
I would’ve run,  
far and fast,  
but even that’s a lie.  

Because even when the universe screamed,  
"Stop! They don’t love you,"  
I silenced it.  
I rewrote its whispers,  
forcing the stars to spell,  
"They do."  

And now I’m sick,  
sick of this love  
that churns my stomach,  
a sickness that clings,  
making me want to throw it all up.  

This love is a poison,  
an ache that blooms in my chest.  
It’s killing me softly,  
with every beat of a heart  
that still beats for you.