You said,
“You’re better now,”
and I said,
“Not quite.”
I’m just quieter
when I lose the fight.

I’ve learned how to spiral
without making a mess—
I flinch like a debutante in danger—
I cry in the dress I bought for my funeral.

Healing looks holy
if you’re far enough back;
from across the room, I look redeemed.
Up close, it’s mascara
and panic attacks.

I am
so
well-behaved now—
I answer in lowercase,
I apologize in advance.

You’d never guess
I once threw a chair so hard
it split the act in half.

If I miss you,
I don’t text.
I answer fake calls
from you-shaped phantoms.
We fight.
I win.

I stand in the doorway
for dramatic effect.
I practice my exits
more than my lines.
I stage a comeback
with no audience.

I watch the part of the movie
where it all goes wrong,
then rewind it.
Then rewind it again.

I am healing
like a fraud.
Like a martyr with stage fright.
Like a saint who missed her cue.
Like someone who knows
I’m still your favorite bedtime story—
but only when I end.

I turn my breakdowns into brunch plans,
my grief into good posture.
I answer questions with questions.
I wear rings so I have something to twist.
I smile like it’s stage direction.
I rehearse sanity
like some girls practice wedding vows.

I light candles for each version of myself
you forgot.
I document.
I archive the damage—
like it might get reviewed later
by God.
Or worse, by you.

If you’re reading this:
I didn’t mean it.
(I meant every word.)

If you’re avoiding this:
good.
I wanted you to squint
at the poem’s edges
and wonder if the blood
was real.
(You always liked your violence subtle.)
(You always liked your girls learning your language—
just to beg in it.)

I pray more now.
Not to be saved.
Just to stay interesting.

Do you know how hard it is
to look healed
when your rage is wearing a rosary
and smiling in group photos?

Every time I wanted to scream,
I posted nothing instead.
Silence is the loudest performance
I’ve ever given.

I don’t raise my voice.
I sharpen it.
I sweeten it.
I lace it with facts
you’ll misinterpret on purpose.

My therapist says I intellectualize emotion.
I say, “Thank you.”
My boss says,
“You need to sleep and eat like you’re real.”
but she loves the **** I write.

I tell them both I’m fine.
I look fantastic
when I’m about to snap.

I know what I sound like.
I know how this poem reads.
That’s the worst part—
it’s always intentional.

That’s the best part—
I’ll pretend I didn’t mean it,
and I planned that too.

You look like the life I wanted
when I was pretending I wasn’t dying.
She’s beautiful, obviously,
and it’s not like I’m still trying—

I don’t miss you.
I miss the girl I thought I’d get to be
if you loved me right.

Do you ever
ache so privately
it feels impolite?

Because I do—
in airports where I don’t arrive,
in checkout lines I barely survive,
on Wednesdays, laced with something sour,
in stairwells meant for girls to cower,
in dresses hung with rosary thread,
worn to forgive what wasn’t said.

I am so well-behaved now.
I nod. I smile. I bite down.
I curtsy in crisis. I don’t make a scene.
I bleach my longing till it gleams.

I’m not still hurt, I’m just rewired.
I’m not that mad, I’m just so tired.
I’ve kissed the quiet on both cheeks—
but I riot in my lucid weeks.

I’ve made peace with playing dead,
but some nights I come back red—
in dreams that loop,
in memory's choir,
where the girl kept smiling
while walking through fire.

You look like the life I lied about
when I swore I didn’t mind.
You should hear what I don’t say about you.
It rhymes sometimes.