…Or

Maybe someday,

we’re in some cozy kitchen,

you stirring a sauce

while I chop too slowly,

and we’re bumping hips

like none of it ever hurt.

You’d laugh

and say,

“Remember when we almost gave up?”

And I would

the silence,

the cold mornings,

the almosts.

But we didn’t.

We kept reaching,

kept burning things on the stove

just to feel warmth.

And maybe love

was never the fireworks.

Maybe it was this

us,

tired,

still trying,

still here.

Happy,

That we chose this.

-or-

Maybe someday,

in some version I made up,

we’re in a small kitchen,

you humming,

me barefoot and pretending

not to watch you cook.

You’d say,

“Wild we almost didn’t make it,”

and I’d smile

because in that life,

we did.

But here,

in this one,

we didn’t.

We let it go.

We walked away.

Still, some nights

Most nights

I sit with the ghost of that moment,

imagining us

choosing to stay.

And maybe that’s its own kind of love

the kind that wonders,

even now.

What if.

Leftover Love

I still save a seat for you
in conversations that never happen.
Still flinch when a song knows too much.
Still wonder if you ever
wake up missing the way we used to be
before the quiet got too loud.

For the Promises, For Myself.

It hasn’t happened yet.

But it’s coming.

I feel it building in the back of my throat

not guilt,

not shame,

but that old familiar heat

that says you know better now,

so do better.

And still…

I stall.

I rehearse what I’ll say in the shower.

Whisper to ghosts in the mirror.

Run simulations like a nervous machine:

They yell.

They cry.

They don’t remember.

They laugh.

They forgive.

They don’t.

I’m afraid of every version,

especially the ones where they just stare

no reaction,

just the heavy silence of a person

who doesn’t owe you a goddamn thing.

That’s the worst, isn’t it?

Not the rage,

but the indifference.

Because I was always so loud in their lives

my chaos dressed in charm,

my pain wearing other people’s skin.

And now…

I’m learning to show up

without the armor of excuses,

without cracking a joke

to dodge the dead air between us.

I know my tricks.

The way I wrap pain in poetry.

The way I turn confession into performance.

The way I say I’m sorry

but make it sound like feel bad for me instead.

Not this time.

God, please

not this time.

This time,

I want my hands open.

I want my voice quiet.

I want to offer, not ask.

I want to speak from the place

that isn’t looking for applause

only air,

only space,

only a little dignity

on the walk to make things right.

The truth?

I don’t know who I’ll be

on the other side of these sorries.

And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe this is the doorway.

And the key is just

saying it

anyway.

Even if they don’t walk through.

Even if they slam the door.

Even if they ask,

Why now?

Because now is when I can.

Because now is all I’ve got.

And I am ready

to feel the weight lift,

one apology at a time

even if it’s just me

standing in the aftermath,

alone,

but finally still.

I Went Anyway

I wasn’t ready to heal.
Still packed grief in my carry-on.
But life doesn’t care.
It just asks,
“Are you coming or not?”

Soft Boy Era

I cried to a stranger in the target parking lot.
Felt poetic, so I didn't hide.
The stranger smiled like they’d been there, too.
Maybe we all romanticize rock bottom
so it feels less like drowning
and more like performance art.

Don't Let Go, Let Go

They said let go like it was nothing.
Like it didn’t come with claw marks and blood.
But I let go anyway.
Because I wanted my hands free
for whatever comes next.

Still Alive

I cry.
Like a faucet.
Like I’m still leaking the version of me
that was yours.
I miss the 'us' that laughed in the grocery store
and danced around while brushing teeth.
What a strange thing to grieve
someone still alive.

Eulogy for the Living

in

I’m here today to say goodbye
to a love that isn’t dead
but damn sure isn’t mine anymore.

No casket.
No lilies.
Just the ghost of your laugh
echoing in my ribs
and the echo
hurts more than the silence.

This isn’t a funeral.
It’s a letting go ceremony.
An un-wedding.
An unwinding of vows we never spoke aloud
but carved into habits,
into routines,
into grocery lists
and playlists
and promises like:
"Let’s never lose this."

We did.

I stand here, heart in hand
not bleeding,
but bruised in all the ways you can’t see on an X-ray.
This grief is quiet.
Polite.
Still does the dishes.
Still asks about your day
even when you're just a name on a screen now.

See, you didn’t leave.
You just…
changed rooms in my life
without telling me
which door you went through.

And I’ve been opening the wrong ones ever since.

I miss you
like a song I used to love
but now can’t listen to
because it knows too much about me.

I miss us
not the chaos
not the breakdowns
not the holding-on-for-dear-life versions of us
I miss
the way you used to look at me
like I was something
holy.

Now I’m just
haunting my own hope.

So today, I light this poem
like a candle.

I let it burn
for all the versions of us
that might have been.

And I say this, soft but sure:

You were
a chapter.
A damn good one, maybe the best.
But the story keeps going,
and I’ve got pens to bleed,
pages to turn,
people to meet
who might finally
stay.

I’ll always love you.
But I don’t have to carry you.

And maybe that
is the most loving thing I’ve ever done.

I Took It All

I

took it all.

Like a sponge in dirty water,

I soaked up every drop of blame,

every whisper of guilt that echoed off your silences,

every sideways glance that told me

I was the wrong one.

And maybe I was.

Maybe I am.

I held the worst of us in my palms

like hot coal I thought I could carry

if it meant you wouldn’t have to burn.

I called it mine.

Owned it.

Branded it into my skin with shaking hands

and a trembling voice that just wanted to say,

“I’m sorry.”

And I was.

God, I am.

Not the kind of sorry that spills out easy,

but the kind that lives behind the eyes,

the kind that sleeps beside you like a ghost,

the kind that wakes up every damn morning

just trying to do better.

I made my amends.

I stood there naked,

spirit bleeding,

heart cracked open like a confession booth,

and I said the truth.

No justifications.

No excuses.

Just the wreckage.

Just the wreckage

and my hands

and this mouth that can’t take any of it back.

But even that

even that

wasn’t enough.

I was critiqued.

Corrected.

Told I didn’t explain it right.

As if there’s a manual for this.

As if grief and guilt come with an index and a glossary.

As if I’m not already choking on the ash of who I used to be.

You wanted more?

More what?

There’s no sentence clean enough,

no paragraph that could purify

what I did when I was drowning and calling it swimming.

I’m an alcoholic.

I was hurt.

I tried to survive.

I didn’t do it right

I know.

I didn’t do it well

I know.

But I did it.

I did it because I believed

some part of this could be rebuilt.

I thought you might see me standing there,

in the ruins,

and say,

“Okay. We can begin again.”

But instead,

you said divorce.

You said end.

You said nothing at all,

and that said everything.

No levity.

No grace.

Just the dull, clean cut of reality

slicing through what was left.

And maybe…

maybe that’s all that’s left.

Maybe that’s what this has to be

ugly, sharp, and final.

But don’t you dare say

I didn’t take responsibility.

Don’t you dare say

I didn’t carry it.

I dragged that pain like a cross through a storm

just for the chance to say,

“I see it. I own it. I’m sorry.”

And you?

You looked at me

like I was still the same monster,

like my sorrow wasn’t sculpted into every breath.

Maybe you needed more.

Maybe I had nothing else to give.

Maybe all that’s left

is this poem,

this ache,

this truth

I took it all.

I still am.

And maybe

just maybe,

I’m finally learning

to put some of it down.

Flowers In My Heart

in

by Dylan Bice

I used to think love was the answer.
Now I know—
it’s just one of many questions.

Back then,
I was soft, wild, and starving.
Starving to be seen.
Starving to be held
by someone who would make the blooming feel safe.

Now?
Now I’ve loved harder than I thought was survivable.
I’ve watched the person I once called “home”
become someone I barely recognize in old photos.

We didn’t fail—
we just unraveled.
The threads became too tangled.
The love didn’t feel close enough.

And I—
I broke us in the end.

I started to pull away,
first in silence,
then in secrets.

I drank to blur the hunger.
I drank to forget the space between us,
to shut down the ache of being unseen.

And then—
I tried to fill the void in my chest
with men who laid no claim to my heart.

Bodies without names.
Nights without meaning.
All in the name of feeling something.

I betrayed the very thing I wanted to save,
and it cost me everything.

I was the one who packed my bags.
But he—
he was the one who closed the door.

And that sound?
That final click of the lock?
It echoes.
Even now.
Because even when you choose to leave,
it doesn’t mean your heart wanted to go.

And still,
I carry a tenderness for him.
For the version of us that laughed at dumb TV
and split the last bite of dinner
and knew, for a while,
that love was real.

But love doesn’t always last.
And sometimes the bravest thing you can do
is leave the garden you both planted—
because the soil stopped giving back.
I’ve fallen.
More than once.
Into people who only ever wanted to borrow my light.
Into hands that couldn’t hold me.
Into nights that promised warmth
but left me colder than before.

I’ve broken down
in bathrooms,
in bars,
on trains with strangers,
and in the arms of people I had no business loving.
Not because I didn’t know better—
but because knowing better doesn’t stop the loneliness.

I’ve tried to quiet the ache with alcohol.
I’ve blurred the edges,
thinking maybe I’d find myself in the soft focus.
But all I ever found
was a louder version of the questions I was trying to escape.

You see
I live with a brain that betrays me.
BPD.
Anxious attachment.
The kind of mental mess
that makes love feel like a game I was born losing.
Where silence is punishment,
where affection is currency,
and my emotions never learned how to whisper.

I fall fast.
I believe deeply.
And when I love,
I love like it’s oxygen.
Even when it burns.

And yeah—
I still want someone who just gets it.
Someone who won’t flinch when I care too much.
Someone who can look at the wild, complicated,
big-hearted garden inside me
and say,
“I see it. I won’t run.”

But these days,
I know better than to wait for someone else to water me.
These days,
I wake up and hold my own damn hand.

I go slow.
I tend my soil.
I forgive myself—daily.
For staying too long,
for leaving too soon,
for needing,
for hoping,
for still wanting to give love away like it won’t run out.

Because no matter how much I’ve hurt,
my heart has never closed.

I am still that person—
the one who loves out loud.
Who gives big, and messy, and without a receipt.
I’ve just learned to pour some of that love back into me, first.

I’ve learned to protect the flowers
while still offering the shade.
I’ve learned that loneliness doesn’t mean I’m broken—
just human.

And yeah—
some nights, I still ache.
I still imagine a someone
who meets me where I’m at,
who doesn’t shrink from the depth,
who lets me feel without fear.

But whether they come or not—
I will keep growing.
Because I am not just a garden.
I am the gardener.
The rain.
The sunlight.

And the love I carry?
It’s not a weakness.
It’s my wildest strength.

So no,
I’m not done loving.
I never will be.

But now
I know who to love first.

Not Mine

in

Why am I this mad

over something that was never mine?

Why does it burn

like something was stolen

when it was never in my hands to begin with?

A job.

A maybe.

A half-promise wrapped in polite interview etiquette.

A chance I thought I had

but never really did.

Are you allowed to grieve something

you never actually held?

How do you bleed

when you were never even cut?

It’s not about the job.

It’s about the fear.

The fear of not being enough.

Of being passed over.

Of being invisible

in a world that screams for confidence

but doesn’t notice you unless you’re already standing on a pedestal

made of corporate pandering and luck.

I fear being stuck.

I fear being broke.

I fear needing help

in a world that tells you to hustle

while watching you drown.

I fear being dependent.

On people.

On kindness.

On crumbs.

I fear not making it.

Not mattering.

Not surviving.

Not becoming anything more than a cautionary tale.

And yeah.

These fears feel real.

They sit in my chest

like unpaid rent.

They whisper in my ear

with voices that sound like mine.

But feelings aren’t facts.

And fear isn’t prophecy.

And pain doesn’t mean I’m broken

it means I care.

I am allowed to feel this.

To rage.

To scream.

To be bitter for a second.

To grieve the things I almost had.

But I don’t have to stay there.

I don’t have to carry this.

These fears?

They’re loud, but they’re not real.

They’re echoes.

They’re lies with good marketing.

They’re ghosts wearing the faces of my doubts.

I can name them.

I can feel them.

And then I can let.

Them.

Go.

Claws

in

I don’t know how to explain it.

How to make anyone understand

the way alcohol sinks its claws into me—

not soft, not gentle, not whispering like some romantic tragedy.

No.

It fucking rips.

One drink. That’s all it takes.

One drink and I start erasing everything I’ve built—

every apology, every attempt, every ounce of progress

gone in a wave of warm poison down my throat.

And I know what comes next.

Thirty more.

Slurred words, broken promises,

decisions I’ll regret before they’re even finished.

And the worst part?

I’ve done this before.

So many times.

I’ve watched myself destroy shit in slow motion.

I’ve seen the look in your eyes as the damage lands,

and I still fucking pick up the bottle.

I drink when I’m sad.

But after the first shot—I’m not there anymore.

I don’t know who takes the wheel,

but I swear to God it’s not me.

Because when I wake up, when I read the messages,

hear the stories, feel the distance—

I hate that fucking guy.

That guy who called it love, but handed out hurt.

That guy who laughed too loud,

disrespected everything sacred,

took what wasn’t his to take,

and still somehow felt justified in the moment.

How fucked up is that?

How twisted must your mind be

to convince you it was okay?

To let you burn it all down and smile while you do it?

I look at what’s left—

charred remnants of what was once us,

and I feel sick.

Not just guilty. Not just ashamed.

Fucking sick.

Because I didn’t just break your trust—

I shattered the version of me that was safe for you.

I didn’t just blow up my life.

I ruined the one soul who ever made me feel like maybe—just maybe—

I wasn’t a complete lost cause.

And now here I am,

standing in the wreckage,

saying I’m working on it.

Saying I’m changing.

Begging for you to wait.

To give me another second,

another breath, another shot at being someone you could believe in.

But I hear how fucking pathetic that sounds.

I know how it reads.

Who the fuck do I think I am

to ask anything from you now?

After all the damage?

After all the chances?

And yet—

here’s the part that wrecks me most:

You should walk away.

You shouldn’t forgive me.

You are worth more than this broken, bleeding mess I keep becoming.

But if you walk away…

I don’t know what’s left of me.

Not without you.

Not without the hope of you.

And how do I live with that?

How do I swallow that truth and still breathe?

I’m stuck in this sick paradox—

knowing you leaving me might save you,

but also knowing it will might end me.

And maybe that’s justice.

Maybe that’s fair.

But fuck…

it hurts.

And I’m so fucking sorry.

Lost Somewhere in the Void

in

I fall into this void in my head.

Most the time, it’s a riot

voices clawing at each other,

a cacophony of shame, doubt, and noise,

but this time…

This time, it’s different.

Silent.

Still.

Just me, alone, floating in the hollow.

No screaming. No cravings.

Not even the shadow of the bottle lurking behind me.

I don’t want to drink.

And for once

my addiction isn’t calling.

It’s not whispering temptations or

offering that old escape hatch I used to crawl through.

It’s just… quiet.

And somehow, that’s even more terrifying.

I slip into isolation like it’s a second skin.

Can’t pick up the phone.

Can’t make myself move.

I’m not in danger, not this time.

Just… still.

Numb.

Like the volume of the world got turned down

and I forgot where the dial is.

Then the fears slink in.

One missed call.

Just one.

And shame comes crashing in like a wave

They’re mad at me. I’m a disappointment. Again.

Suddenly the idea of calling back

feels like dragging chains uphill.

And I can’t explain it.

Can’t tell you why my brain locks doors

even when the house is burning.

Can’t admit I’m struggling,

because I already know what you’ll say:

“That’s exactly when you need to reach out.”

Yeah. I know.

God, I know.

But it’s not that simple.

It never is.

My throat closes up like it’s protecting me

from my own vulnerability.

And I’m left holding a phone I can’t dial,

scrolling past names I won’t tap,

hating myself a little more with every swipe.

I don’t need reminders.

I don’t need corrections.

I don’t need a lecture in “you should know better.”

Because I do.

I know better, I know the tools, I know the steps.

But knowing doesn’t mean I can move.

What I need

is someone to sit in this void with me—

no fixing, no preaching.

Just…

presence.

Compassion without the “but.”

Love without the lesson.

Because this silence?

It isn’t peace.

It’s a battleground without bullets.

And for once, I’m not drowning in addiction,

I’m not looking for a bottle to make it stop

but I’m still alone.

Still fighting.

And the worst part?

The void doesn’t hurt me.

You do.

When you forget I’m trying.

When you meet my pain with judgment

instead of just fucking holding space.

Don't Go

in

Please…

don’t let me go completely.

I know.

I know for you, I’m over.

For you, we’re done.

For you, I’ve fucked up too many times

burned too many bridges

with hands that were only ever trying to build.

And I don’t blame you.

I don’t sit here pretending like I didn’t light the match.

I know what I did.

I know how deep the hurt goes.

I know that, for you, I’ve crossed the line

from love to too much.

Too broken.

Too late.

But still…

it doesn’t change the truth that you’re still it for me.

The one.

My endgame.

My goddamn forever.

I hope and I pray

every fucking day

that somehow, this version of me I’m becoming,

the one I’m chiseling out of guilt and growth

and therapy and honest self-work,

might be someone you could still see as worthy.

Worthy of your time.

Worthy of your love.

Worthy of the quiet kind of forgiveness

that feels like home.

Because I can’t imagine life without you

and I know that’s part of the problem.

I built my life with you as the foundation.

Our love

it wasn’t just a chapter.

It was the whole damn book.

My identity, my constant, my compass.

I know how fucked up that is.

I know how unfair that weight must’ve felt

on your shoulders

to carry both of us

when I barely had a grip on myself.

It was unsustainable.

It cracked, and then it collapsed.

And yet here I am,

still trying to rebuild it all, brick by brutal brick,

just praying there’s a place left for us in the ruins.

So I’m begging you.

Don’t let me go completely.

Don’t say the final words.

Don’t wash your hands of me

of us.

Not yet.

Not like this.

Because I feel it.

I know it.

We aren’t done.

Not really.

There’s more story here—unfinished chapters,

unlived days, unsaid words.

And when I close my eyes and reach for the future,

it’s your face I still see.

It’s your hand I still want to hold

through wrinkles and silence and time.

I don’t want to lose you.

I don’t want to lose us.

But I don’t want to trap you in waiting either.

I don’t want you to suffer in limbo

while I try to become who I should’ve been all along.

I just need you to know

I’m not done loving you.

I never was.

And maybe one day…

maybe one day you’ll look at me again

and see someone worth coming home to.

But until then,

please…

don’t let me go completely.

Uninvited

in

Fear came knocking

like it always does.

gentle at first,

then louder,

impatient.

and because I'm human,

because I've answered before,

i open the door.

i let it in.

it steps through the doorway

like it owns the place.

hangs its coat.

makes itself comfortable

in the space between my ribs.

but today

Faith shows up too.

not loud.

not demanding.

just… certain.

faith walks over,

looks fear in the eyes

with that calm,

unshakable presence.

and says,

“He’s unavailable today.”

no apology.

no explanation.

just truth.

and for once,

fear doesn’t argue.

it just…

leaves.

All At Once

in

The universe never stopped reaching for me.

it never pulled back.

never folded its arms and said, “well, fuck it.”

nah

it kept whispering.

quiet.

steady.

waiting on me to shut the hell up long enough

to hear.

but i got caught up

dizzy in my own self-will,

spinning circles,

thinking i had the answer

if i just tried harder

pushed more,

ran faster.

i stopped listening.

like, really listening.

to the wind in the trees,

The waves on the beach,

to the dolphins out in the morning swell

they always show up when i need them

I just forget to notice.

the universe speaks

in the smallest shit sometimes

traffic lights flipping to green

right before my foot hits the brake,

like some divine nod saying

keep going.

you’re not late.

you’re not lost.

it speaks in voices of strangers,

in the way someone tells a story

that somehow ends up being about me

without ever knowing me.

and when I'm not

swallowed whole by my own motives

when I'm not

trying to bend the world

into something I can control

that’s when I start to hear again.

it’s like the noise of the world dies down

the static cuts out

and suddenly

the words of a friend

hit like gospel.

like a damn cosmic meteor

straight to the chest.

suddenly,

the trees don’t just sway

they speak.

and the sky’s got something to say,

and my bones finally feel

like they’re back in the right place.

like home.

like I'm not just floating through this shit.

like I'm stitched into it.

threaded right through the middle

of everything.

me and the universe

we’ve always been in conversation.

I just forgot how to listen.

Burdens and Beasts

in

I am Sisyphus
and I am the boulder.
The weight, the struggle, the endless climb.
Every day, I push the stone uphill,
knowing it will roll back down.
Knowing I will do it again.

And yes
I am the boulder.
The burden. The flaw.
The consequence of my own hands.
This torment is not placed upon me
I built it.
I shaped it.
I made it mine.

I am Prometheus
and I am the eagles.
Torn apart by the world,
ripped open by my own choices.
My flesh, stolen piece by piece,
only to heal, only to lose it again.
And yet
I feast.
I take.
Even knowing the cost.
I devour through anguish.
I destroy through knowing.
Still, the cycle spins.

I am Odin.
gouging out parts of myself for wisdom,
only to find knowledge is not salvation
it is a heavier burden.
I’ve given everything to understand
and still, I suffer.
Still, I bleed.
Still, I fall.
Still, I climb.

I am Icarus
drunk on ambition
so desperate to rise I forget the price of flying.
The sun was never meant to hold me
yet still, I rise.
Still, I burn.
Still, I fall
wax melting down my spine
pretending I didn’t see it coming.

I am Hades
lord of my own underworld
dragging the ghosts of my past
crowned king of wreckage.
I built this kingdom out of pain
named it home
dared anyone to take it from me.

I am Atlas
my back breaking beneath the weight.
The world presses down
daring me to let it fall.
But I don’t.
I hold it.
Because I was told it was mine.

I am Narcissus.
not in love but in desperation,
staring into the reflection.
trying to recognize what’s left
if there’s anything more
than the hollow shape of who I used to be.

I am Orpheus.
turning back when I shouldn’t
letting doubt unravel what I built
watching love slip away
because I could not trust it would stay.

I am Achilles
strong, untouchable
or so I pretend.
But I know where my weakness lives.
I know what will bring me down.
Still, I leave it exposed.

I am creation and destruction
the sword above me
and the choice
to stay
or to take one step forward.

Funny Thing

in

Love is such a funny thing.

Falling in love, especially.

I wanted it so badly, ever since I was a child.

The way it was painted in stories, the way it was promised,

like a fairy tale, like some sort of salvation.

And how could love not be romanticized?

But love isn’t the problem.

It never was.

It’s the falling.

Because falling is exactly what it is.

A plunge from an airplane with no proof of a parachute.

A descent from a cliff with the harness left unfastened.

A freefall, weightless and helpless, with no promise of landing safely.

It is, in the end, a kind of death.

Always a death.

Whether in the vows of til death do us part or in the slow, quiet undoing before…

one of us will not survive the other.

And me? I am still falling.

I used to think if I fell hard enough,

if I threw myself into it with everything I had,

the landing wouldn’t matter.

That love itself would catch me, hold me, keep me safe.

That devotion was enough to soften the ground.

But love isn’t made of hands,

it isn’t made of safety.

It is an unknown we step into willingly,

mistaking the wind against our skin for flight.

And for a time, it does feel like flying.

But the body can only take so much.

And the fall… it never fucking ends.

There is no warning before the impact,

no mercy in how we break against each other.

It’s not quick.

It’s not clean.

It’s slow.

It’s cruel.

And still, I keep my arms open,

as if I can slow the descent.

As if I can stop what’s coming.

As if love was ever anything more than gravity,

or the ground waiting to swallow me whole.

Sharpened Tears

in

My anger turns to sadness, 

my tears form into fangs.

I taste salt and blood as they sharpen,

as they carve me into something unrecognizable.

I see myself as a spectator,

watching as the transformation takes over.

My words become knives, my heart turns to stone,

and I can not stop them.

they spill from my lips like venom,

like I am possessed.

And I am possessed.

This anger is not me.

This anger is not anger.

It is fear wrapped in fire,

hurt dressed as rage,

sabotage disguised as strength.

It is pain, plain and simple.

And it devours me whole.