If you had died-
because of what I said,
what I didn’t say,
what I became
when you needed softness and I turned to steel-
I swear
I wouldn’t be writing this.
I’d be gone too….

Not out of love.
Out of guilt.
The kind that climbs your spine
like a noose learning your name.

I replay it every second-
your silence,
the hours you vanished into,
the stillness I didn’t recognize
until I imagined you cold.

My hands,
these stupid hands,
could’ve held you.
But they threw the match instead.

I dream of your name
stitched into hospital linen,
and it guts me.
Because if you had slipped away-
for real-
I’d be carving apologies into my skin
just to feel the pain
you almost drowned in.

I’d rather bleed than breathe
if it meant you’d never felt that alone.

But you stayed.
God, you stayed.
And now I’m here
with this monster in my mouth
named regret,
and a thousand I’m sorrys
that don’t resurrect a single thing.

If you ever leave again,
don’t let it be like that.
Don’t let me be the reason
your story almost ended.

How can I ever live with myself?
I can not.