After everything
didn’t you learn anything?

You were supposed
to be healing by now,
reflecting on the mistakes,
on the love you gave
that was never solid—
only wind.

It was not true,
even if you are certain it was.
It wasn’t, love.
It was emptiness,
a hunger for affection.

If you had stopped,
just for a moment,
to think about it,
you would have known too.

You shouldn’t be writing
about us,
about our love,
our undone plans.

You should be writing
about your traumas.

You’re kind of funny, you know.
I wanted to stay in our home,
but you said
I was the one moving out—
because I chose separation.

You yelled at me
when we tried to fix things,
shouting that I should
pack my things
and walk away.

Now you’re the one moving,
asking if I want to live there.
Of course not.
I’m on another frequency now.

And yet you want me
to solve the problems
with the painting—
me,
the one you invited to leave.

Where’s your speech now?
You wanted the house.
So—
keep the house.

Today is a portal day—
a day to close cycles,
to remember,
to say enough.

And who messages me?
You.
Like confirmation
from the universe.

I saw the photos online—
you with her,
traveling,
smiling.

But always behind sunglasses,
so no one notices
how bored you are.

My sister says
she’s just a filler,
a stand-in.
There’s no glow in your eyes.

All that’s left
is to laugh at the scene,
because deep down,
it feels almost comical.

So I wish you happiness—
though my heart is stormy,
angry, torn.

If I wish you harm,
I create bad karma.
So—
many felicities.

Yes,
I can get upset
over silly things.

Yes,
I can get angry
at the smallest details.

And that’s okay.

I take those feelings,
pour them into poetry,
or fists against my pillow.
And that’s okay.

But if I spoke of these little things—
the failures,
the sadness—
to everyone,
not all would understand.

And that’s okay.

It’s about feeling,
letting it out,
letting it pass,
and finding peace
within myself.

Dear—tell me,
do you really think
he loves you?

Until you appeared
out of nowhere,
he was still trying
to reconcile with me.

So no,
don’t believe him
so easily.

You are more of a filler,
a patch for the void.

He might post your photos
on Instagram,
call you family—
but you’ve been with him
for a month.
I was there
for seven years.

He won’t get over me
that fast.

He’s replacing one love
with another.
But maybe you’re just
a convenient body
to take to the gym.

So, my dear,
face reality:
he doesn’t love you
that much.

Sometimes,
when I finish a poem,
when I’ve polished it,
I see a white light
surrounding it—
not because it’s perfect,
not because it deserves an award,
but because it is mine.

I cry
reading my own words.
Sometimes I feel
it isn’t me writing at all,
but someone else takes the wheel,
gathers my emotions,
seals them in a shell,
lets them ripen,
until a precious pearl
emerges before me.

And that is why I cry.
Because this pearl
is too beautiful,
and it was born
from my own heart.

They may exclude you,
block you,
erase you—

but only because you set boundaries,
because you chose your own voice
over theirs,
because you chose to be whole,
not broken into pieces.

Once, you jumped ship
hoping they would save you.
And they did—
but not from loyalty,
not from friendship,
only for what you could offer.

That nearly destroyed you.
It drained your soul.

Now, you’ve jumped again—
no lifeboat,
no life jacket,
no hope of rescue.

And that’s the beauty of it.
Because now you know
the true value
of learning how to swim.

I’m grateful
because you told me
I had to take responsibility—
"my friend".

I’m grateful
because you called him
“the park maniac”
and made me laugh
when all I wanted was to cry.

I’m grateful
because you said,
“Now I get off this roller coaster
and leave you on your own.”

I’m grateful
because you reminded me
I deserve more—
a life filled with happiness.

Thank you, both of you.
You are my best friends.