You were both life and death.
You started as my everything,
in the way I spoke about you, like
saying your name kept you close.
You infected every corner of my life,
spread through me like an invasive plant,
planting your roots in places I didn’t know
existed.
No warning, no time,
just something that took hold
before I realised I had let you in.
And suddenly,
you were everything.
Everything I had.
You left me with nothing but your
roots, problems for me to deweed.
Digging them out one by one,
trying to find where I begin
and you stop.
I let you grow too deep,
take over
into parts of me that should
have only belonged to me.
I am pulling and tearing,
harming myself in the process,
just trying to remember what it’s like
to breathe air that belongs to me
air that doesn’t smell like you.
You were everything.
Now what’s left is empty,
damaged space with roots
buried so deep they will follow
me for life.
You were everything—both
life and death.
Mar 24
Mar 24, 2026 at 1:47 PM UTC
You were both life and death.
You started as my everything,
in the way I spoke about you, like
saying your name kept you close.
You infected every corner of my life,
spread through me like an invasive plant,
planting your roots in places I didn’t know
existed.
No warning, no time,
just something that took hold
before I realised I had let you in.
And suddenly,
you were everything.
Everything I had.
You left me with nothing but your
roots, problems for me to deweed.
Digging them out one by one,
trying to find where I begin
and you stop.
I let you grow too deep,
take over
into parts of me that should
have only belonged to me.
I am pulling and tearing,
harming myself in the process,
just trying to remember what it’s like
to breathe air that belongs to me
air that doesn’t smell like you.
You were everything.
Now what’s left is empty,
damaged space with roots
buried so deep they will follow
me for life.
You were everything—both
life and death.
The fourth poem in my small series