I gave him my silence.
Folded it neatly, like laundry.

I let him keep his name clean,
even when mine was dragged through the dirt.
I swallowed the questions,
the isolation,
the rage,
the aching need for answers—
because they said, “You’ll regret burning bridges.”

But I was the bridge, wasn’t I?
The one he crossed over,
hands in someone else’s hair,
while I was at home
turning myself into a softer place to land.

And I stayed silent—not because he deserved peace,
but because I still loved a version of him
I made up in my mind.
A version where he was whole,
where his hands only knew me,
where his promises weren’t hollow.
I clung to that ghost,
even as the real him shattered me.
I begged the lie to stay,
just a little longer,
stitched together from hope and denial,
until I couldn’t tell the difference
between my dreams and his lies.

I swallowed the shards of my own heart,
telling myself it was love,
even when it tasted like blood.
I thought my silence was a gift,
a sacrifice that meant something.
But all it did was give him freedom
to forget what he’d done,
to walk away clean while I carried
the wreckage of us in my bones.

I didn’t just lose him.
I lost the woman I was before him.
I lost the girl who believed
love was enough to fix the broken,
to heal what didn’t want to be healed.
I shed pieces of myself like dead skin,
all so he could feel lighter,
so he wouldn’t have to carry
the weight of what he did.

I handed him peace
gifted by my surrender,
wrapped in my tears,
tied with the ribbon of my silence.
And what did I get in return?
Nothing.
Not even closure.

Ig no one really knows-
what it’s like,
To kneel in the wreckage he left behind,
and try to stitch yourself together
without knowing which pieces are yours?

He walked away free,
clean,
untouched.
And I’m still here,
wiping the blood from my hands,
wondering if peace is just
a prettier word for defeat.

Maybe I could have fought harder.
Maybe I should have screamed louder.
Maybe then he’d carry some of this weight.
But no—
I chose his peace.
And it broke me.

Now, I sit with this hollow thing
they call closure,
waiting for it to feel like something
other than the echo of your own voice
in an empty room.

Is closure just another word for escape?
Would the silence I crave
feel like theirs?
Or would it finally, finally be mine?

But closure doesn’t grow in graves.
And I’m tired of planting myself there.
Every unspoken word cuts,
every swallowed scream burns.
They tell me to let go—
like I haven’t tried.
God, I’ve tried.

Let it go?
It’s not something you hold;
it’s something that holds you—
by the throat,
by the ribs,
by every nerve that remembers
what you’re trying so hard to forget.

What if my closure means breaking
the peace they built on my ruin?

Cuz Closure ain’t quiet.
It’s a scream in the dark,
a demand to be heard,
even if no one is listening.

If it’s any consolation,
some of us hear it,
loud & clear,
even in your silence,
and that all that matters tbh.

**** them who judge us on lies fed by him,
May they one day get a piece of the truth.
May their regret and their guilt burn their walls down,
Let them choke on the ashes of everything they thought they knew about us.
And may the smoke carry the message on.

You weren’t silent to save him—you were silent to save
the illusion you built.
The man you thought he could be.

And maybe that’s the closure.
Not a clean break,
not an apology,
not a chance to rewrite the past,
no…not even justice—
but to finally understand
that some bridges deserve to burn.

That I deserve to rise
from the ashes of who I was,
without carrying the weight
of who he’ll never be.

Let him have his peace.
I’m taking back my fire…

a phoenix reborn.