#poetsandstuff

i think about what it means to crave someone not out of hunger...but for the peace they bring to hold their heartbeat in your hands not because you fear losing it but because it’s the first sound that’s ever felt like

home

I miss you.

I wonder sometimes why I'm still here,

no more bending no more swallowing pride like a bitter pill that sits in my throat a stone i can’t cough up and why should i let it go why should i hold their shit in my hands and pretend it’s flowers

i won’t forgive anymore not the lovers who left not the friends who lied not the strangers who walked by and didn’t look twice at the bleeding at the scars i carved...myself

they say it’s for your own good to forgive and forget like it’s an answer like it won’t cut you again the second you turn your back but i know better now i’ve tasted the copper in my mouth the flavor of holding on and it’s goddamn real more real than their empty fucking words

we scribble dreams into journals in handwriting too neat to last plans sprawling like constellations maps to the versions of ourselves we crave

but january is a thief dressed in grey mornings and dark afternoons its hands pulling threads from our resolve until the tapestry unravels

by the sixth…the magic fades resolutions wilt like flowers left in the cold hope sits heavy in our chests like a bird too tired to take flight

we stare at our reflection wondering if change was ever real or just a story we told to make the darkness seem less endless

the world didn’t stop didn’t even pause just kept chewing on its routine while i crumbled like decaying bread

it wasn’t poetic wasn’t some...grand finale just a quiet collapse the kind no one notices because no one’s looking because no one cares

the air got heavy my chest got tight and the mirror stopped reflecting...anything that made sense

i remember thinking this is it this is the punchline but the joke wasn’t funny and the audience had, long ago, left

we will leave pieces of us here pressed into the walls like fingerprints we forgot to paint over

someone else will step into these rooms fill them with their own stories never knowing...ours still linger in the dust

love, they told us...is something you choose over and over and over again as if it isn’t also something that chooses you

as if it isn’t something alive reckless stubborn refusing to be tamed thriving...even when we neglected it even when we tried to rewrite the ending

but love has never been a quiet thing it does not wait for permission it does not ask if you are ready

it weaves itself through time past walls past the dust past us