Ir al contenido principal

A Pseudonym For Love.

A home that never learned my name,
I reached the shore just as the tide pulled away.
Loneliness disguised as freedom,
Your hands stained red with promises you couldn’t keep.

Uncertainty spoken to the deaf,
A language lost on a foreigner.
Running from myself, but the mirror pulls me back.
Hiding in the rearview.
I thought I saw an angel, but… never mind.

Burned the letters but kept the ashes,
An I love you frozen in the wind.
A poem abandoned mid-thought,
Praying to a wordless God.

I ran from love for as long as I could
Until it knocked on my doorstep
In the ghost of you.
And I knew
It was time to pay my dues.

But I grew tired.
Tired of believing
In the conspiracy theory
That you’d grow a backbone out of my patience.
Tired of whispers that echoed back
Phrases we once spoke in our secret language.

I am tired of heartbreak,
And lovers
Who slammed the door so hard all pictures were shaking.

Another thing I ruined.
A bridge leading nowhere,
A garden where nothing grows,
A compass that spins without direction.
Because I lost your north.
Some doors lock from the other side.

I whisper into the void,
“Does he love me?”
But it echoes back into a question:
“Do you?”
The last petal always lands on no,
No matter how many flowers I pull.

You left me as you found me.
Writing long-lost love letters
To all who abandoned me.
Except now, all my scars scream your name.

Sadly, you realized
The bridge trembles because I step on it.
The ship sank in sight of land.
I am poison,
you spit me out like a secret you couldn’t keep.
And everything I have ever loved
Ends up bleeding poetry.

A pseudonym for love.
I stepped on the deck as the ship sailed away,
Hands on a map to a place that no longer exists.
Saving my last breath for a conversation that already ended.
I’m always a day late and a dollar short.
For everything meant for me.

Loving you was a maze,
I didn’t come out the same.
Some things are best kept buried.
I learned that the hard way.

A language neither of us speaks anymore.
Love letters collecting dust in a drawer of regret.
Your ghost still knocking at the door,
In a house I don’t live in anymore.

I live by a calendar of eleven months,
A year only 334 days long.
No more Julys to come.

And everything in our love’s field
Became landmine I don’t dare cross.


February 14, 2025.

Comentarios

Publicar un comentario

Entradas populares de este blog

Good People Hold Knives Too

A broken ego tossed down the drain, a humming echo of a past that still resonates, a heart that beats out of habit instead of willfulness. Bandaids on bullet holes that won’t stop bleeding, silence so dreadful, you can hear your right ear ringing. ill-fated love story. if you knew there was to be a car crash in the greatest ride of your life, would you still hop in? I stare at the wreckage of something I once saw as unbreakable . from a place I never thought I'd be standing. I see it differently now. It doesn’t matter because the ship was always meant to sink. Exiled from my dreams. It’s not that we are not good people, but good people hold knives too. Sometimes to protect us, sometimes pressed against the throat of the other. My therapist asked why I didn't realize the worst part. That we were in love. Palpable, sunken, driven, covered. In love. It was all around us. Love wove itself into every breath, every glance, every word we exchanged. Why didn’t you kill me when you had ...
Publicar un comentario
Leer más

The Sinking Feeling When You Know It Ends

I knew it was over before anyone said it out loud. The sirens wailed, but no one ran. Gunshots in broad daylight. Between us, a body bleeds. When it happened, it felt like slow-motion agony. The pistol went off, the sound ringing in my ears. Every dime we ever spent on love hit the pavement, rolling away like scattered pearls. People screamed, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t rise above my biggest fear. They ask what happened. I don’t answer. I just look at your hands, still wet with blood, your breath, still steady. You don’t tremble. You don’t flinch. You just stand there like a man who’s done this before. Both hands on the smoking gun. I tried to save it. Pressed my hands against its chest, counted, begged, whispered prayers between desperate compressions. I swore I felt something—a gasp, a twitch, a sign that I wasn’t too late. So I kept going. Past exhaustion. Past reason. Past the moment you had already given up. You just stood there, watching, like someone who slows down to sight...
Publicar un comentario
Leer más