i wear the grades like a mask,
convincing everyone but myself.
even in the things i love,
it feels like someone else’s hands
are moving through me,
creating things i don’t deserve.

when will they notice?
when will i?

I texted “miss you” today,
and her reply wrapped around me—
“I always miss you,” she said,
as if the space between us
was stitched with her love,
always waiting,
always there.

you told me i’d be better off.
i told you i was fine.
we lied,
but i kept the silence warm,
kept your name pressed
into the back of my mind,
like a bruise i didn’t want to heal.

i carried the ghost of us,
let it haunt every corner,
let it seep into everything,
because forgetting felt like losing you twice.

but i’m done now.
this is the last poem i write for you,
the last time i dress my pain up
to make it look like love.
you and i are dead,
and i won’t keep trying
to breathe life into a grave.

you told me i’d be better off.
i told you i was fine.
we lied—
but now i’ll tell myself the truth.

You caught the sunrise today,
barefoot on the dewy grass,
the world holding its breath
as the sky turned soft and gold.

A bird sang—just one at first,
then another, then a chorus—
and you laughed because it felt
like they were singing for you.

The air smelled like beginnings,
like something had shifted
while you were asleep,
and you didn’t even mind the chill.

For a moment, it was enough—
just you and the morning,
and the thought that maybe
everything would be okay.

Eggs are weird,
but I eat them anyway.
Toast gets burnt,
and I call it flavor.

The milk’s expired,
but not too expired.
Coffee’s bitter,
but so am I.

Breakfast is simple,
until it’s not.
Sometimes,
it’s the best part of the day.