Leave the flowers on my grave

breathe in and out

learning to let go

has to be the hardest part.

trying to unlearn

how it would feel to be with you.

trying to unsee

the world full of what we could be.

trying to unlove

everything I admired in you.

breathe in and out

doing it over and over again

until my mind clears the fog

hazing over my eyes.

you are not the man I should love

I made you completely

from a few short words and false ideas—

begone the man I dreamed of

along with the man himself.

breathe in and out

go before I change my mind—

before I learn, see, and love you again

as the man I made my everything

when in fact, you’re nothing.

how do I begin to explain
the sadness buried deep
in the pit of my stomach?
when I ask myself,
“why does it hurt this much?”
I have no answer.

or maybe I do—so I try,
and in a whisper, I confess,
“I’ve lost someone
I never thought would leave.”

I experienced
two kinds of heartbreak this year—
one I inflicted on someone else
but felt just as deeply myself.

the other was thrust upon me;
so sudden, so cruel,
without remorse—or so I believe.

did this heartbreak break yours, too?
or am I alone in this?
if it did, I hope you at least had the bravery—
no, the decency—to tell me.

the lance you drove through my heart
remains lodged inside me,
impossible to remove
without tearing myself apart.
perhaps it will stay there forever.

so I’ll put it on display for all to see:
here is the lance, still protruding,
still carving wounds to my core.
leave your flowers on my grave—
all sympathies and well wishes are noted.

but don’t worry,
at least I learned something:
never trust anyone’s feelings—
not even my own.

driving around feels like freedom.

it always takes me longer than it should to get home 

after leaving the warmth of my friends’ company.

because if I am bound to feel stuck in the coming days,
I might as well linger on the road a little longer—
before I trap myself back in my room.

I'll never understand 

how easy it is 

for you to forget me

because I still think about you

before I fall asleep

and on november days.

were we ever soulmates ?

did we love each other as we claimed?

or were we lost souls bound and unbound?

and now that the tethers have disconnected

it all feels like a fever dream—

like we never were closely knit

you were a stranger until you weren't

and now you are again.

too late for reintroductions,

we have fallen off all too deeply

into our own worlds,

as i watch you forget me all too easily

i wish i had the courage
to tell you how much you hurt me,
instead of saying i'll be okay.
because as true as it is—
that time will carry me forward—
the road to shedding the disappointment,
the weight of your choices, is long.

i wish i had the courage to tell you,
but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.
even you couldn’t ease the hurt;
i've always been the one
to stitch myself back together.

but would it have killed you to ask?
to show me you cared enough to try?
or was that too much to expect?
maybe i never found the courage to tell you
because you never made it seem
like it would have mattered anyway.

my poetry flourished

when I stopped forcing a perspective

that was never ever there

there’s nothing more
I can do to make life
easier to live;

I just have to learn
to find happiness
and contentment

in the simplest things.
to pause and realize
that what I have—

is a life worth living.
my days still hold wonder,
and a quiet many only dream of.

I struggle to understand
what it means to be loved,
to accept someone’s feelings as real.

because unless it is spoken or shown
in all its undeniable clarity,
I won’t believe it.

so I search—
through texts, through images,
through fleeting gestures—
grasping for any crumb of affection.

if i’m being completely honest,
I would love to see you—
every week, every day, every hour,
if only time and distance allowed.

I would love to hear about your day,
about your lunch, about the coworker
you can’t stand—
if your affection mirrors mine.

I would love to be the voice
that fills your quiet,
or the quiet that fills your space;
the kind of silence
that only feels safe
in the presence of someone
your 5-year-old self
would trust to be alone with.

if time and distance allowed,
and if your affection held steady,
I would love to be your beloved friend.

between the remnants of our time,
i glimpse shadows of our doubts,
dressed as admiration—
but never quite clothed in it.

perhaps i’ll never encounter another like you,
but i’ll learn to accept that
I never deserved to.

you fail to show me
that my thoughts have a place,
my words—no matter how erratic or strange—
deserve to be heard.

you don't care to understand,
because insincerity envelops you,
as hollow as your promises.
in the end,
you simply don’t care enough

unconditional love feels like a scam,
sold to us as the highest form of care—
but in reality, it’s a transaction,
silent and unspoken, with a price we’re never told.

it promises without boundaries,
yet leaves us questioning what’s left when
our needs aren’t met,
our voices unheard.

we’re told it’s endless,
but it runs out when we give too much,
only to be left holding something
that was never really ours to keep.

I am nearing a place of acceptance—
that romantic love may not be for me.
but I still feel love in its purest form:
from friends who say yes to spending time with me,
my sister who buys me coffee on her way home from work,
and my nephews who sit in my bedroom,
watching YouTube on my iPad,
then drawing pictures of me and the future they imagine—
one where I am never without them.

I have always been a hopeless romantic,
envisioning love as grand gestures,
hand-holding, lingering stares across a crowded room.
but I never knew how fulfilling love could be
in all its quiet forms—
even with one side of my bed left untouched.

I’ve heard it’s wonderful,
to have someone to share every moment with,
to explore life hand in hand.
but doing it all on my own
takes just as much courage—
and just as much joy.
it may seem like overcompensation,
but I don’t think it is.
I’ve dated, I’ve tried,
but nothing has ever felt as fulfilling
as simply being with myself.

so while I welcome the idea of love,
I am in no rush to find it.
I am content living life on my own terms,
until the right person comes along—
someone who checks every box,
someone worth the wait.
because after all these years,
I've realized something:
I would rather be alone and happy
than settle for a love that makes me feel lonely.

unconditional love feels like a scam