Another night, another drink.
Not too much—just enough.
Enough to ease the tightness
when I think of your hands on my arm.

Sober, it’s too much.
My chest burns,
tears press forward,
my breath turns on me.

I try to ground myself—
TV flicker,
phone glow,
messy bed,
tight socks,
empty bottle.

Five things I can smell—
but I stop.
The bottle stares back.
Still empty.

I head downstairs,
open the fridge,
grab a few more.
Not to get drunk—
just to keep the sting away.

I say I’m healing.
Say therapy’s helped.
But I don’t believe I have a problem.
My bottles are quiet enough to believe me.

They pile beside me,
the only ones
who know the truth.

I read it twice, I still didn’t get it
I did not receive the message
I couldn’t understand the meaning

You poured in your heart
And I left it, torn apart
Because some things don’t resonate
Until it’s once again too late

And you made up your mind
While I stayed behind

Always too slow to make up my mind
Staring at the lines once more,
They look back like a locked door,
I tried knocking, but not sure what for.

Poems are like puzzles in crypts
You write in metaphors
And I respond too literally

And interstellar that didn’t align
A story written that wasn’t mine

And now there’s just silence,
Where insight should have been.
I held something breakable And didn’t feel it within.

a glass wing kept beating
behind the wallpaper.
i fed it honey
through the seams
and called it mine.

on the third thursday,
the moon blinked out.
you spoke in echoes,
spilled mirrors
across the floor.
i swept them up barefoot.

every silence
was a string in my mouth.
i pulled it,
thinking it might unravel you.
instead, it sewed me
shut.

the garden grew
upside down.
i watered the roots
from the sky.
you wrote your name
on the underside of a cloud
and said you never meant permanence.

meanwhile,
i lived beside the sound
of an unopened door—
**** warm,
hinges aching.

you said the map burned.
i said the fire had your handwriting.

now, the bird has left the wallpaper.
it’s made of smoke and backward time.
i watch it spiral
into the somewhere
you didn’t take me.

It was only a door,
a frame of wood and steel,
hinges that whispered secrets
every time it swung shut.

But one night, it broke —
splintered by words sharper than fists,
its edges warped by the weight
of slamming, shouting, silence.

I patched it with care,
sandpaper and nails,
a veneer too smooth to betray
the fault lines beneath.

Yet the wind remembers.
It presses through cracks too thin to see,
a cold draft that lingers in rooms
I’ve since repainted.

Even now, when the house is quiet,
I flinch at creaks,
of shadows moving too fast.
The door stands still,
but I am the one that warps

Beneath now lives, what once was
Maybe not was, just never been
It was a fire, lit
A passion, lived

Now to be buried beneath the sand
Boiling land, unreached by hand
It burns to the core,
Once I wanted, now no more

The earth would have to crack
From lightning or thunder
Not from rage,
But remembrance.

Within the nature of things
You can perhaps hear a beat
Your heart, skipping
With the silence, once lived.