Eulogy for the Living

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.

Flowers In My Heart

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.

Claws

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.

Don't Go

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

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

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.

Sharpened Tears

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.

I Love You

I love you,

so maybe I should let you go.

That’s what they say…

if you love someone, set them free.

But please, don’t come back to me.

I love you with everything I am,

every fiber of my body,

every inch of my soul,

and that’s what terrifies me.

If I believe in this love so completely,

why do I keep hurting you?

Why can I break you

and still manage to breathe?

If I love you,

why do I leave you with bruises,

with scars,

with baggage you never asked to carry?

I don’t want to hurt you anymore.

I don’t want to be the reason you flinch,

the reason love feels like something

you have to survive.

I want you to live the life you deserve.

to love and be loved

in a way that makes you shine,

so bright the sun would be jealous.

I want you to hear the rain

and feel safe,

to stay in, stay close,

wrapped in the warmth of someone

who never makes you doubt

that you are enough

I can’t keep asking you to change for me.

I can’t keep piling weight onto your shoulders

and act surprised

when you collapse under the pressure.

I am so sorry

for who I have become,

for what I have turned this love into.

I know you think about leaving.

I see it in your eyes,

in the hesitation before you speak,

in the way you reach for the door

but never turn the handle.

It isn’t fair to keep you here.

Not when I know you want to run.

I won’t make you plan your escape.

I won’t force you to serve this sentence.

I will open the door,

hand you the keys,

walk away,

and never return.

Because you deserve more than this.

More than me.

Who is to Blame?

If drinking is my source of fun,

why does a good time

always mean running from myself?

If I have to quit because it turns me

into someone I swore I’d never be,

then who was I before. 

the one I was drowning at the bottom of every bottle?

And why was he so unhappy?

If I can’t be social without liquid courage,

then is the person I am

really so unbearable

that I have to shove him behind a mask,

blur the edges with beer goggles,

just to feel worthy of company?

Or was it the six shots at the bar

that numbed the thought

that no one likes me.

how could they,

when I don’t even like me?

And if I put the bottle down

and still hate the man staring back at me,

who is to blame?

I tell myself it’s just a phase,

a few drinks to soften the edges,

to make laughter come easier,

to turn silence into something I can dance to.

But the music fades,

and I am left

with the same thoughts I drowned last night,

floating to the surface,

demanding to be heard.

I wonder if the people around me

would stay

if I stopped drinking,

if I stopped performing,

if I was just me… 

raw, unfiltered,

with no liquid script to follow.

But I’ve worn this version of myself

for so long,

I don’t know if I’d recognize

the person beneath it.

I don’t know if I’d want to.

And maybe that’s the real fear.

not the drinking,

not the stopping,

but the reckoning that comes

with being sober enough

to meet myself.

How many times did I come home

smelling like whiskey and regret,

mumbling apologies

that meant nothing

because I would do it again next weekend?

How many times did he wait up,

hoping I would choose him

over the bar,

the bottle,

the need to be anywhere but home?

I thought love was a foundation

too strong to crack,

but I was the hammer,

swinging blindly,

never stopping to see what I was breaking.

And now, the silence between us

is louder than any drunken fight,

louder than slammed doors

or slurred confessions,

louder than I can bear.

I used to think I was drowning alone,

but I see now

I pulled him under with me.

I have felt my voice rise,

sharp and reckless,

words cutting like glass

before I even know I’ve spoken them.

I have seen his face change,

flinch,

the way someone does

when they don’t know

if the person they love

is about to become a storm.

I have thrown words like punches,

slammed doors just to hear them break,

let anger build into something violent,

even if all I ever wanted

was to be held.

I have watched his hands tremble

when I drink too much,

not because he’s afraid of me—

but because he’s afraid for me,

and that might be worse.

I don’t want to be a threat,

don’t want to be the reason

love starts to feel like something

he needs to survive.

I never wanted to hurt anyone—

especially not him.

I look at old pictures,

trace the outlines of the man I used to be,

the man who smiled without effort,

who loved with both hands open

instead of clenching his fists around a bottle.

Was I ever that man,

or have I just rewritten history

to make this version of myself

easier to stomach?

He loved me once,

but did he love me

or the idea of who I could be

before I let the alcohol reshape my edges

into something unrecognizable?

I tell myself I can find my way back,

but I don’t even know where to start.

I don’t even know

if the road still exists.

And if I’m not the same man

who fell in love,

how can I ever ask him

to love me again?

You Don’t Love Me

You don’t love me.

You love the polished version,

The one that smiles at the right time,

Laughs at your jokes,

And never spills over the edges.

You love the surface,

Not the cracks that run deep,

Not the darkness I tried to hide

But couldn’t keep from seeping through.

You loved the idea of me,

The clean, safe picture you painted,

Not the real me

The messy, raw, clawing-at-the-walls me.

You wanted a lover who’d never scream,

Who’d never shatter under the weight of his own mind,

Who’d never fucking need too much.

But I do.

I do.

Do you know how much it burns,

How much it hurts inside me,

Knowing you held the fantasy tighter than my hand?

Knowing you kissed my lips

But wished for someone softer, easier?

Do you know what it feels like

To love someone who looks at you like a goddamn project

Something to fix, to refine, to polish

Instead of something whole?

I gave you my broken pieces,

Hoping you’d hold them with care,

But you didn’t.

You looked at them like they were sharp,

Like they might cut you,

And I saw it

The flinch, the hesitation.

You didn’t want my shattered truths,

Only the parts that gleamed in the light.

And now, I am drowning in your indifference,

Furious and hollow,

Begging myself to stop aching for you.

Why do I grieve for someone

Who never loved me.

Only the shape of me,

The shadow of something easier to hold?

I want to scream,

To tear apart the image you built,

To make you see the real me

The angry, desperate, unlovable me.

But it won’t matter.

Because you don’t want the truth.

You never did.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part of all…

You made me believe I could be enough.

But I was never enough for you,

Not as I am.

The Weight of Worthlessness

I feel numb.

Not the peaceful kind,

Not the kind that softens the jagged edges of life.

This numbness is heavy,

Thick, like fog,

Suffocating in its emptiness.

I feel like I’m done.

Not with him, not with us—

God, no.

I love him,

I love what we’ve built,

The life we’ve woven together from shared dreams and crazy nights.

I don’t want to lose it.

I can’t.

But what if he’s already given up?

What if the warmth has faded from his touch,

The light dimmed in his eyes?

How do I convince him to stay

When I can barely convince myself

That I’m worth staying for?

Maybe he’s right.

Maybe no one should stay.

Maybe the hollow, silent voice that echoes in my head

Is telling the truth:

I am nothing.

I’ve done nothing.

I stopped growing the moment we met,

Stagnant in his shadow,

Content to drift while he stood tall.

And now, almost eight years later,

What do I have to show for it?

Nothing.

Just a worthless piece of shit,

Clinging to a life I don’t deserve.

It’s heartbreaking.

Shattering.

To look at myself and see only fragments

All sharp edges and broken glass.

I can’t fucking stand it anymore.

I can’t bear the weight of myself,

The endless screaming inside my own mind.

I don’t feel at home here,

In this head, in this heart,

In this hollow shell that carries my name.

I want out.

Not from love, not from him,

But from me.

From this unbearable existence,

This endless loop of shame and regret.

I want to be someone else,

Someone who feels worthy of love,

Worthy of a life.

But I’m trapped here,

In a body that feels foreign,

In a mind that won’t let me go.

Re-Runs

My eyelids are heavy, but my thoughts weigh more than the pull of sleep.  

I lie here, desperate for rest, but my mind runs marathons, replaying every wrong I’ve ever done.  

Guilt. Regret. Mistakes.  

They line up, one after another, marching through my consciousness like ghosts that refuse to be laid to rest.  

How do I escape these endless reruns of my past?  

Why can’t I just turn it off?  

Why is it always easier to remember the wounds than the healing?

Oscars

And the Oscar goes to

me—yes, to me, and God, I deserve it.

Every single day, I put on this mask

crafted with such care, just for you.

What you don’t see is that this performance is agony,

each smile a lie, each laugh a facade.

The nails I used to fix this mask so seamlessly

leave deep, aching scars when I get home.

What you don’t know is the real me,

the one hiding behind this charade.

And maybe it’s my fault for letting it go this far,

for not knowing how to be myself and let you in.

Who wants to be around the guy

who crumbles into a panic

at the mere thought of leaving the house to pay a bill?

Who wants to spend time with someone

who constantly cancels,

because the dread of possible anxiety

makes the idea of showing up unbearable?

The mask I drive into my skull

holds it all together, keeps me from falling apart.

But it’s not just one mask—I have a mask for every moment,

for every situation, until I no longer recognize myself.

And here I am, the award-winning actor,

playing a role I never wanted,

trapped in a performance I can’t escape,

longing for a chance to show you the face beneath.

Tired

I’m so fucking tired

of trying to heal

in a world that is broken.

Every step feels like a battle,

every breath a struggle

against the weight of a thousand thoughts.

The world spins in chaos,

a storm of pain and despair,

while I reach for fragments of hope,

trying to piece together a shattered self.

I'm tired of the masks I wear,

the endless performances

to hide the cracks,

to pretend I'm whole.

But deep down, I'm exhausted,

weary of the fight,

longing for a moment of peace

in this relentless whirlwind.

I’m so fucking tired

of trying to heal

in a world that doesn't care,

where brokenness is the norm,

and my pain is just another whisper in the wind.

So here I stand,

broken and weary,

fighting to heal,

even when the world feels like it's falling apart.

Flowers In Your Heart

Love is what I live for.
I know—that’s a cliché.
I’m a twenty-something guy with a whole lifetime of experiences ahead of me.
But if life is about experiences,
what matters more than love?

I remember the first time a boy told me he loved me.
I remember every first “I love you.”
My body would fill with warmth,
my heart swelling
like flowers blooming from a garden I didn’t know I carried.

But I remember the goodbyes even more vividly.
I remember every:
“I love spending time with you, but this just isn’t going to work.”
Every:
“I’m not ready for anything serious.”
And I think:
With time.

With time, he’ll be ready.
With time, he’ll love me like I love him.
With time, my love will open his eyes.
With time, he’ll say what I know he feels.

But with time...
my heart just shatters again.

You see, my problem is that I love too much.
Too deeply.
Too completely.

And my brain?
My brain is wired like a house with faulty electrical
It makes me doubt everything I feel.
One minute I’m high on connection,
the next I’m spiraling over silence.

I drink to numb it
to outrun the voice that tells me I'm too much,
too intense,
too broken to be chosen.
But drinking just pulls the thread tighter.
It makes me reckless with hope.
It makes me believe things that might not be real,
and question the ones that are.

Sometimes I can’t trust my brain.
Not when my heart gets involved.
And when the two start arguing,
I get lost inside myself.

But still
If I care about you,
you will know it.
You will feel it in every word,
every silence,
every breath.

I give everything.
Even when you have nothing to offer back.
Even when I’m scraping myself off the floor just to keep showing up.
I don’t know how to not love that way.
I don’t know how to hide my heart.

And I’m told
"Let’s take this slow."
"I’m not ready yet."
"I think we could be amazing… just not right now."

So I wait.
That’s the thing
I wait.

I wait for the love to circle back.
For someone to make flowers bloom in my heart again.

I tell myself:
It will be worth it.
He will be the one.

But he isn’t.
He never is.

I am waiting for a train that never comes.
Waiting for rain in the desert.
Waiting for someone who doesn’t know how to love me back.

And I’m tired.
Tired of waiting.
Tired of sacrificing my peace just to feel worthy.

Love or not
you’re no good to me.
You’re not good for me.
Even if I understood you better than I understood myself.

The flowers in my heart?
Gone.
Wilted.
Petals scattered across a dusty floor I no longer recognize.

But I don’t blame you.

I blame myself.
Not for loving
but for letting the garden die.
For letting darkness in where roses once lived.

Because I loved those roses.
Even after I let you go,
they made me smile on the hard days.
They reminded me I could feel.

I’m not sorry I loved you.
Not sorry it overwhelmed you.
And I will never apologize for the depth of what I had to give.

Because I love.
That’s what I do.
I am a heart… with a body attached.
A soul that refuses to shrink.

Every day is a lesson.
And you
the ones I’ve loved
you are sermons.
You are reminders of who I am and what I deserve.

I won’t stop loving with my heart wide open.
Even if it scares people away.
Even if it scares me.

Because this heart is who I am.
And I’m learning… slowly
to love that person.
To trust that maybe I'm not too much.
Maybe I was just loving the wrong people.

So I will replant those flowers.
Tend to them gently.
Water them with truth, not wine.

Someday,
you will love.
Not with me,
but with someone.
And I hope when you do,
you let those flowers grow.