dawn of the final day
i am a sincerely selfish person!
it's like a locked jaw
holding something too tightly
just to prove it’s mine.
and i knew!
i need to say that first.
not in a prophetic way,
moreso in the administrative sense
of reading the fine print
and signing anyway.
so i knew
before the first late-night reply,
before i started measuring time
in the distance between your messages
there was never dishonesty between us
just small, deliberate eclipses maybe.
we called it timing
we called it utilitarian
we called it going with the flow
but it was more like
watching the water rise
and deciding not to move.
i saw the ending
the way you see headlights
before the turn
and stepping into the street regardless.
and i wish i could've made you feel
the exact shape of what you leave in me.
not pain, not even sadness,
but that low sickening hum
of almost-almost being chosen.
you only text me past dusk
like i’m a nightlight
you don’t have to look at.
like i’m a contingency plan
or warmth without consequence.
it seems like you only reach for me
when the dark starts to breathe too loud.
but who am i to blame?
i answered.
because knowing something ends
has never been enough
to make me walk away.
because hope, for me,
is a kind of stubborn self-harm.
it's quiet, defensible,
and so easy to romanticize.
i keep thinking
maybe this is the time it breaks
maybe this is the night
you choose me on purpose
not because it’s late
not because you’re lonely
not because i’m convenient
and already awake
but because something in you
leans toward something in me
without needing warmth
as an excuse.
i replay it—
the almosts, the nearlys,
the way your words hover
just shy of meaning something.
and i let them.
which is where the rot starts.
there is something in me
that is learning the language of teeth and tongues
i can feel it
like the bile that emerges from my throat.
i feel my intent turning sharp at the edges,
like a thought that wants to hurt back
just to prove it can.
and i don’t know what to do with that.
i don’t know how to hold anger
without it becoming a mirror.
so i practice small disappearances.
forgetting people in increments,
like skipping songs
i used reherse the words to.
teaching myself
it’s okay to close the book
even if i loved the beginning
even if i spoiled the end
even if i kept hoping
it would rewrite itself
and still,
i wonder if we read the same ones.
if somewhere in the margins
you paused where i paused
if you ever underlined something
and felt less alone for it
or if i’ve been narrating
for both of us
this whole time.
i wonder if you’ve ever had a kind thought
about me
you didn’t say aloud.
i wonder if we’ve ever been
the same person
for even a second.
i keep making a fool of myself
in front of you
hope is embarrassing like that
tripping over sincerity
like it’s something i should’ve grown out of
but i’m starting to think
maybe that’s all it is.
knowing exactly how this ends
and staying anyway
trying loudly
trying with witnesses
trying in a world that keeps records
of every almost.
and maybe being seen
mid-fall
and knowing i jumped
is the closest thing
to honesty
i know how to offer.











