you are an artist

my writing. a work in progress. my only hope is that something on here resonates with you main: joy-mini

[writing-as-survival]

You’re in the liminal space right now,

the quiet before something else comes.

This stage is the hallway. The “in-between.”

[writing-as-survival]

It’s been fifteen months.

At first, I was unaware of what tomorrow would bring.

Three days passed. Then seven. Then ten.

By the fourteenth, I started to wonder.

I considered you a friend.

The intensity of your absence

sets ablaze the frayed edges

of the hole you left in my heart.

You are not gone, just slightly out of reach.

My fingertips outstretch,

hoping to grasp the fabric that still enwreathes you.

Nothing more, nothing less

the dim glow of your name on my screen.

It would ignite a warm fire in me,

just enough

to bring back the feelings I seek.

Your presence delivers goosebumps

hairs rising like tiny soldiers at attention.

But the muscle memory of those feelings has faded.

I only have the remembrance of them now.

Still, I wait, eager for a return from your jet to holiday,

wondering what that might stir within me.

I don’t know the future,

but I know this

if you were to reappear,

I would accept it willingly.

[writing-as-survival]

I write about you.

I’m not sure if that would surprise you.

No one knows I write.

Well, hardly anyone.

But when I do,

it is usually you.

I can’t think of many other topics so deserving,

or many other things that occupy my mind.

I always wonder if you felt it too.

I felt a spark there, between you and me.

It didn’t take much for it to die.

It shouldn’t have existed at all, if I’m being honest.

It is nothing more than a parasocial acquaintanceship,

and that stings more than anything.

I’ve got it built up in my head,

but still I wonder

how you’d feel

if you knew.

I write about you.

[writing-as-survival]

I want more than just wishing you well.

I want to be the reason you are well.

The unseen tether between us,

carried in reels, reactions, likes

sent back and forth like prayers

You never asked me to hold you in my heart,

yet I did, through pixels and silence,

through a thousand small gestures

that stitched themselves into meaning for me.

When you pulled away,

the thread frayed but never snapped.

I still feel the pulse of what could have been.

I wanted to be the reason you laughed,

the reason you felt less alone.

As you were mine.

Instead, I am the echo

wishing you well from a distance,

carrying the weight of a love

I never got to give.

[writing-as-survival]

The Seasons Make Me Ruthless

Yes, my writing is improving.

Your absence has sharpened my tongue,

strengthened my voice,

and carried me up among the angels.

Yes, I’m thriving without you.

I sing, dance, make poetry and make love.

I hope you do too.

At first it was a wound,

but Gemini season came and caught me shining.

Summer brought warmth and new horizons.

The end of May, something healed within me,

and each day I think of you less and less.

Now October whispers to me,

reminding me there is more still to come.

That leaving behind the memory of you

is an accomplishment,

but not my biggest one.

I know what I think of you,

and I shouldn’t say it out loud.

But I don’t know what I want for you.

I can’t imagine you ever knowing peace,

but you are no garden of violence either.

One thing I know is true:

I won. I beat you.

Because in every circumstance

I am a better person,

through this separation.

Oh yeah,

and keep mine and my lover’s names

out ya mouth, bitch.

[writing-as-survival]

I want more than just wishing you well.

I want to be the reason you are well.

[writing-as-survival]

nine years

the number of endings,

the closing of a cycle,

a door i never thought would slam shut.

but maybe endings are teachers,

and nine is not a loss

but a turning.

you left me behind,

yet i carry the proof;

I mattered,

I shaped,

I loved.

and now,

I begin again.

[writing-as-survival]

Life is existential pain

With little sprinkles of joy

[writing-as-survival]

I read your mourning,

but grief is cheap when you twist it into blame.

You call it “lashings,” I call it truth.

We wanted you to stop burning your life down like it was a game.

I know you lost the house, the car, the bed of your own.

Yet still, you view yourself like royalty on a throne.

He was never “smol,” never "inconsequential"

He was the voice you couldn’t ignore,

the one who told you the things you didn’t want to hear.

So you shrank him down in words,

because you couldn’t shrink the mirror.

I chose him over you for a reason,

That choice has since saved me, in every season.

And me?

I mattered more than you’ll ever admit.

I showed up,

again, again, again,

until showing up became a wound.

You say you don’t regret goodbye.

Good. I don’t regret surviving you.

You turned care into cruelty in your head,

because the mortification from your choices

was sharper than anything I ever said.

[writing-as-survival]

1 year to this day

The pain doesn't go away

9 years

Thought you were here to stay

Although it still hurts

You haven't been replaced

The longing remains

To find someone along the way

I know my people are out there

I have many who've shown up for me

Friends and family

Couldn't be you, what a sad sight to see.

[writing-as-survival]

I'll never forget the last time I saw you.

You were boring, pitiful, and completely out of touch with reality.

I attempted to be fun, to cheer you up, but such a facade can only last so long.

In the days following, our text messages became more and more bleak.

Finally, I opened up to you. I told you that I didn't want to see you give up on life.

You took it as a personal attack, and decided to cut me out of your life for good, with no explanation.

After 9 years of friendship, this kind of ghosting is unwarranted. You failed to tell your truth and built up years of resentment towards your best friend who only wanted to show you love.

You've done this in the past. I will never feel bad for you, as you dig your own grave over and over again.

You just didn't want anyone there to see your downfall.

[writing-as-survival]

I will always believe in softness and love.

I will always be vulnerable; open to new beginnings, new people, and new chances.

I will always be kind.

And nothing in this world, not even you, can take that away from me.

The cruelest people wear sweetness like a mask.

Then cry victim when they harm others.

You’re not a villain.

You’re a delusional, depressed narcissist.

No one manipulated you but yourself.

No one asked you to be inauthentic.

No one asked you to choke on your words.

I love my softness.

I love my sweetness.

I love that I can care for others and still set boundaries.

That I can stay tender without being weak.

The world made me.

Love made me.

And I want all of it.

I don’t need my mother to remind me of that.

I already know.

[writing-as-survival]

5/23

My first birthday without you.

Also the first day

you didn’t cross my mind.

[writing-as-survival]

Yes, I was such an awful friend. How dare I try to save you from yourself? You taught me that some people cannot accept help, and continue to make the same mistakes until they finally learn on their own.

[writing-as-survival]

You say that some come and some go.

Well, I wish I had gone a long time ago.

[writing-as-survival]

You will never see me trying to rebuild bonds that I didn't break

[writing-as-survival]

I wish I was allowed to care more

I wish I could care less