I renamed him "Were You Sent by Someone Who Wanted Me Dead?"
because the damage didn’t feel accidental.
Now his name sits like a warning—
a lighthouse in reverse,
pulling me toward the rocks instead of away.
The boy who made me feel alive but ruined me
is "Can’t Go Back, I’m Haunted,"
because that’s what he was—
a shadow teaching me how to crave the dark.
Even now, I catch myself looking for him
in rooms I swear I’ve locked.
The one who left quietly got
"Stood on the Cliffside Screaming ‘Give Me a Reason,’"
because that’s what I told myself:
he wasn’t cruel, just lost,
just a plane circling the runway,
never meant to land.
I scroll past his name
and wonder if he’s still searching.
The fling that burned too fast
became "She’s Gone Too Far This Time,"
because I warned him—
I’m no one’s redemption arc.
He wanted fire to keep him warm,
but I only know how to burn.
The boy who was almost enough is
"I’ll Tell You the Truth but Never Goodbye."
His kindness felt like sunlight on bare skin,
but I couldn’t stop chasing shadows.
His name glows softly—
a reminder of the light I couldn’t hold.
Another became "Back When We Were Still Changing for the Better,"
because that’s all we were—potential,
the kind of almost that stays caught in your throat,
a song you never finish writing.
I left him there in my phone,
a name too soft for the edges we’ve grown into,
but sharp enough to remind me
how hope always dies in the details.
There’s comfort in cataloging heartbreaks this way—
turning them into lyrics instead of people,
letting songs hold what I can’t.
I swipe past "Forever is the Sweetest Con,"
"If a Man Talks ****, Then I Owe Him Nothing,"
and "Old Habits Die Screaming."
I laugh at my own theatrics
and wonder if they deserve immortality.
If one of them calls,
I’ll watch the name flicker on the screen,
smile at the poetry of it all,
and let it go unanswered.
Because some names
only deserve to live
in someone else’s song.
