they forget you fast.
faster than you blink.
like a dream that fades
before you can think.

you meant the world—
until you didn’t.
they said forever—
but never meant it.

you missed one call,
one laugh, one night,
and suddenly
you’re out of sight.

they move on
with brand new faces,
fill your space
with different places.

you were the hand
that held them tight.
now you’re the ghost
they leave at night.

no goodbyes.
no sorrys said.
just silence loud
inside your head.

they forget your voice,
your jokes, your name.
they play the part—
but not the same.

you still remember
what they wore,
the way they cried
behind closed doors.

but they forget.
and that’s the sting—
you gave them everything.

and they
gave you
nothing
back.

now you're the song
they used to hum.

a half-heard line.

a quiet
"what’s his name again?"

Sometimes I have to remind myself what a monolith is:
  A slab.
  A structure too heavy to argue with.

It doesn’t blink.
It doesn’t beg.
It just stands.

I am not one.
But I pretend.
  I straighten my back,
  Hold my breath,
  And let people leave fingerprints
  On something they think won’t break.

But I crack,
  Only where no one sees.
Not like stone,
  But like anything that remembers being softer.

Sometimes I have to remind myself what a monolith is:
  Unmoving,
    Unmoved,
      Unreal.

After forgetting to sharpen her saw,
Wanda the Wonderful truncated her act,
Cutting her assistant in half,
Instead of eighths.

The crowd loved it just as much.
Injuries down a quarter.

Cogito, ergo sum
But what do I think?
And what, pray tell,
What effect does this have
On my being?
If what I constitute
Is alone, based on action,
Based on thought
What can we say of man today?

A single act of violence
A single act of kindness
A single act of love
Can make all the difference
When push comes to shove

i saw a demon
in my eye it wanted me
to act i said no