I loved you when I shouldn't have.
Didn’t plan to—never intended—
you were good enough
for those
blunt-edged
Tuesdays and
broken-glass Thursdays
you know,
those days you said
“Can you come over?”
and I
stupidly
always said
“Sure.”
(What’s my name?)
Not yours.
Never yours.

I didn’t want to fall,
but I did.
Even while we were
tangled in
half-closed lies and
barely buried truths.
It’s funny
how we ache for the poison
that already lives in our veins.
How I saw
from the start
we were chemicals
unstable,
volatile,
clinging to a rusted shelf
waiting to break.

I was strong.
You were sinking.
You dragged me down
while I taught you to rise.
I showed you
how to see.
But it was never
my job
to make you
a ******* lighthouse.

And that
that was where
I ******* lost it.

I should’ve stuck to the plan:
2 hours of escape,
3 hours of noise,
no more.
Tuesdays.
Thursdays.
Send you home
to your shadow world.
But no.
I carried you
into music,
into meaning,
into books that bled your name
on every page.
You said forever.
I said
nothing is.

And still
you walked.
You left.
But not a ******* day goes by
where my name
doesn’t haunt
your spine
like a ghost.

We were more
than you’ll ever know.
More than I’ll ever find again.
But I’ve made
friends
with silence.
I’ve married the ache,
swallowed the ending,
stitched it
into the back of my ribs.

You say you left
to find yourself.
*******.
You found yourself
in my hands.
And you wanted
to show the ones who broke you
how tall you stood.
But you forgot
who taught you to walk.

The cost
was everything.
And you?
You walk easy
because you were handed it all.
Took it.
Wore it.
Forgot it.

I wasn’t perfect
but with me,
you were real.
You were raw.
And now?
You hide.
You live a ******* lie,
afraid of being touched
by anything true again.
Because you know who you are.
You tasted truth.
And now you rot
in its shadow.

Do the crows in your skull
peck memories into migraines?
Do you flinch
at the echo of “us”?
I don’t mind.

I walk.
Alone.
With that little fluffy gift.
Not crying.
Not reaching.
Not breaking.
Not needing.
If I had one more day
fine.
If I had a hundred years
fine.
Because none of them
include
you.

You,
who swallowed me
from the inside.