I’m tired of writing about you.
The words don’t soothe anymore
they sting.
Every line pulls me back
to a place I keep trying to leave.
It doesn’t make the hurt stop.
It doesn’t make you care.
It doesn’t make you love me through it
or want to fix what’s been broken for so long.
I’ve spilled every truth I have,
begged the page to make sense of your silence,
but even the ink feels heavy now.
Because no matter how many poems I write,
you still don’t hear me.
And maybe that’s the hardest part
knowing you’re not cruel,
you’re just gone.
And I’m left holding a love
that has nowhere to go.
Your silence won,
not because it was right,
but because it drained the most loving parts of me.
The ones that reached,
that believed,
that kept hoping I was worth the noise.
You’re not a monster.
You’re just a man who couldn’t meet me where I stood.
And I’m just a woman
trying to find her voice again
after loving someone
who mistook her quiet for strength.
So this is it
the last thing I’ll write for you.
No metaphors, no questions.
Just truth.
It hurts.
I’m broken.
And I have nothing left to say.
