Writers 
But here, in this cruel, familiar place,
I wear the scars you won’t face.
They’re on my chest, under my shirt,
in the way I don’t trust easily anymore.
And more than losing you, what drives me insane
is still feeling you in places I want erased.
In my coffee order. In the passenger seat.
In the jokes I almost text you.
In the future I already built in my head
with you in every room of it.
Here, I know exactly what it costs to love someone
who only shows up halfway.
It costs sleep. It costs pride.
It costs the version of me that believed love was safe.
You gave up on us every time it cracked,
and I stayed to glue the pieces.
I bled for us.
You just got tired and left.
I watched you seek validation in another's eyes
while I shattered alone under quiet skies.
I told myself it wasn’t about me.
But it felt like it was about me.
It felt like I wasn’t enough to hold.
Like my heart was too bold and too breakable at once.
I’m still here.
Learning to live in a world where you exist
and don’t.
Learning to love myself the way
I begged you to love me.
Maybe in another universe, this didn’t happen.
But in this one, it did.
And I’m surviving it anyway.
One day at a time.
One breath where I don’t miss you.
One morning where I choose me.