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.