You texted, “Let me know you got home safe,”
and I did.
Every time.
Even when the only thing I made it home from
was myself.
Even when “home” was just
the bathroom floor,
or a voice I borrowed to sound okay.

Even when I didn’t want to,
but thought maybe you’d notice
if I stopped.

You said, “You don’t have to tell me everything.”
So I didn’t.
But I left clues like codes in poems we both know you read
and buried my bruises under jokes you laughed at—
because it’s easier to be funny than fine.

When I listed you as my emergency contact,
I wasn’t being poetic—
I meant if I vanish,
you’d know where I haunt.
I meant if my throat closes,
you’d answer on the first ring
and not be drunk,
or walking through spring like it’s not violent,
or sleeping through the night like people who are safe do.
And if you were in bed with someone,
I still believe you’d get out for me.

And when you called me “dangerous,”
I almost said thank you.
Because isn’t that what a flare is?
Burning too loud to ignore?

I wanted to be yours.
Not your girl,
not your burden,
just yours—
like the worst idea you ever loved,
or your last cigarette,
or the dream that wakes you
with your mouth around my name
and your fists full of sheets.

You never called.
But my body still answers.
The phantom limbs of your apologies
twitching through me
like they still belong here.

You never called.
So I made you a myth.
That’s how it works, right?
If someone won’t come save you,
you turn them into a god
and burn in their name.

So here’s your update:
I got home safe.
Then I lit it on fire.
And now I haunt it.