The one I’ve should ghosted first

she smelled like no,

talked like maybe,

and kissed like punishment.

she wanted to be loved

the way broken windows want to be cleaned—

loudly,

painfully,

and only after you’ve bled a little.

we had a daughter.

and still we felt like strangers

rubbing trauma against each other

like two cats in heat

with abandonment issues.

we didn’t make love.

we made need.

shaped it with moans,

and tucked the silence under the pillows

like it wouldn’t crawl back up.

i told her i was tired.

she told me i was distant.

and then we kept meeting like bad ideas,

half-naked and fully resentful,

in the bathroom stalls of our messages.

sometimes i miss her.

but only like you miss the flu—

when you’re cold and lonely,

and you forgot how much the fever hurt.

she cried for validation.

i sent her memes.

she needed a man.

i played therapist in boxer shorts.

and still—

i wanted her to like me.

not because i liked her,

but because she hated herself just enough

to make me feel like a god.

so here’s to her:

the long goodbye i never gave,

the “maybe” i should’ve ignored,

the love that felt like shrapnel in a hug.

fuck.