i hate myself
for becoming the person
who cries over nothing.
except it’s never nothing —
it’s the bruise
still sore
from loving him.

i’m not myself anymore,
just a sour taste
that won’t leave
my own mouth.

i skipped therapy this week,
ashamed to arrive
empty-handed,
with nothing worth
laying down.

i slipped
back into the rabbit hole,
where the air is thin
and every echo is mine.

i wish i could say
i’ll work this out.
i just need to heal —
a bit longer.
then maybe
i’ll fly.