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you called me
the cure
without
ever reading
the fine print.

now you call me
a curse,
despite my explaining
that healing
comes with a burn.

in the future,
call me
however you like,
just don't come back
when you miss the high.
this one is about someone who wanted my world, but ignored the cost.
June 30, 2025
it’s your birthday.
once, I swore I’d never forget —
yet, it just appeared on my feed,
when it used to linger
quietly in my head.

you have a family, children, a wife.
time ran off, and left no trace —
am I allowed to wonder at your life?

those strolls under the moonlight,
the midnight dates –
it’s now her looking at the sky
as the stars cascade.

your memory rests where it used to burn —
quiet, soft, asking no return.
June 23, 2024. 'születésnapodra' translation
For David.
look what you have left on me –
a bouquet of stitches,
still-healing scars,
fine lines I can’t conceal
etched across my heart.

and what of your voice haunting me?
I hope to God it disappears.
someday, I won’t even remember,
that all of this was ever real.
August 29, 2018.
For Lubos.
Is it too late to tell you how i feel?
honey, don’t answer.
I couldn’t bear to hear
all the things you’d have to say.

So keep those lips sealed,
and let me silently pray,
that one day these scars heal,
and fade into nothingness
along with your name.
June 19, 2018.
For Lubos.
BloodOfSaints Jun 22
I am still here,
spine bowed like prayer on the floor ,
heart burning like a candle
you forgot to blow out.


Come home,
when your hands remember our softness.
I’ll be waiting—
still yours,
still lit,
still aching.
Love, is waiting.
Kalliope Jun 20
I'm a house haunted by our future
And things you've said
New buyers come through  and I scare them away.

You're planning a new build with someone else,

How lovely.
It's 8 am
And I'm sick again
I want to not be like this
Hanzou Jun 18
I’ve been okay lately.
Not perfect, but breathing.
The kind of healing where
you stop checking their profile,
but still hear their name in silence.

It’s not love anymore.
Not wanting them back.
Just… this quiet ache
that shows up
when the world slows down.

I miss the version of me
that existed when I thought
forever was real.
Not because of them,
but because I was softer.
Lighter.

Now, I walk steady.
I laugh without forcing it.
But some nights,
I still feel like junk left on the curb,
not because I still love them,
but because I remember what it felt like
to be someone’s home.
Joshua Phelps Jun 18
lately,
i've been down—
and i don't understand
why it still haunts me.

i thought
this would be
the last time.

i was ready
to move on,
but there was
one last storm
i didn’t account for.

i know—
pain isn’t linear,
and sometimes,
the thunder rolls
before the rain
takes form.

but love
was never meant
to last,

not today,
not tomorrow—
not even
if you asked.

so baby,
i ask of you:
let this love
live in the past.

there won’t be
a final act—
just two hearts
moving forward,
intact.
let this love (live in the past)

a quiet goodbye.

not out of anger—just out of finally knowing when to let go.

this one’s about the storm you didn’t see coming,

the closure you had to create yourself,

and the kind of love that’s better left behind.
That morning when I’d first heard of your departure,
I cursed the sun—how dare it beam through my window,
how dare it attempt to warm my skin?

I was filled, for just a moment,
with a rage I couldn’t swallow,
as I picked mulberries
and their juice stained my quivering lips.

Birds sang at your funeral—
their songs couldn’t drown out your father’s grief.
The same birds I’d spend months shooing away
from the fresh soil where you were laid.

For weeks, as I’d drive to work,
I’d spew hatred at the stars—
scattered so carelessly in front of me.
They mocked my loneliness with their togetherness.

I hate that you’re gone.
I hate that I know
that the stars would go on shining without me, too.
maybe one day I'll run out of grief to write about, I kinda hope so.
Letting go is not a single act-
it is art made in fragments.
Like tearing a beloved photograph
Pixel by pixel
until smile fades.

It begins with silence,
the kind that grows like moss
over memory.
You stop correcting their name
when people ask.
You stop replaying the what-ifs
like your breath depends on them

It is an unlearning-
of their laugh, their scent,
their rhythm when they walked away.
You erase them
not with fire,
but with absence.

There's no applause in this gallery.
No frame for your pain.
Just the brushstroke of each
morning
where you choose not to look back.

You start to fill your lungs with now,
to water seeds you almost forgot
to plant.
You realize your heart
was never meant to be a museum
of people who left,
but a garden
for who you're becoming.

Letting go isn't moving on-
it's moving in.
into yourself.
into peace.
into the blank space
where you finally
begin again
Toxic relationships deserve an end
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