i waited for grief to come
in floods,
in salt,
in a body emptied out by mourning.

but nothing came.
only fog.
fragments.
a static silence where you should have been.

disgust,
i’ve learned,
is a dry wound.
it does not weep.
it rots.

you called me fake?
dumb?
CRAZY?
as if snapping my bones
could stitch yours whole.

your words clung to my skin
like mould on damp walls.
i scrubbed.
scrubbed.
until i remembered:
“the rot was never mine.”

you spoke like a warden
locked me in isolation,
called it care.

captivity disguised as care.
and i, fool enough,
tried to call it love.

when my heart cracked open,
you entered like a thief,
shattering the mirror
where i kept myself safe.

i watched my life flash
past, present, all of me.
as you clawed at my reflection,
as if breaking me
could free you from yourself.

you were never batman.
but a boy in a paper mask,
reeking,
hoping shadows would hide your stink.

i don’t hate you.
hate needs blood,
and you’re not worth a cut.

what i feel is filth,
the stench of your voice in my throat,
the memory of lowering myself
to touch something already rotting.

you are not a loss.
you are THE DISGUST.
the shame i scrubbed off my skin,
the vermin i left behind
writhing in its own dirt.

called you batman, thought it’d fit
turns out you’re just the joke of it.