I turned longing into an art form
even poets couldn’t envy.
You said I loved the pain,
like I twisted every wound into a crown,
like I begged to be ruined.
You told me you’d **** me around,
said it like a warning,
but I heard it like a promise
I wanted you to break.
I had a picture of us in my head—
me, softer, more hopeful,
you, more beautiful than you knew,
with wild hair and laughter
that felt like home.
I still think of your hands,
hands that never held me,
but left marks all the same.
I wonder where they are now,
whose skin they’ve mapped,
what laughter they’ve tangled with—
and if they still carry the echoes of me,
whispering between the spaces they touch.
Now, every poem I write
is a bridge I burned,
trying to reach you—
but the ashes are all I have left.
I’ve gotten prettier, you know—
in the way scars fade but never really leave,
short skirts, boots up to my knees,
hair spilling like rebellion.
But still, the ache follows.
I want you to see it—
to scroll past my pictures and feel
the smallest sting,
to wonder if I’d still let you kiss me
if you came back—
but would I want you to?
