toxic love
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Funny,how ghosts never knock. They just find the window,press their palms against the glass,and call it curiosity. I wonder what you came looking for—a confession,a villain,proof that the storyyou were handedstill fits neatly in your mouth. Careful. Poetry has teeth. And some gardensonly look beautifulbecause you cannot seewhat was buried beneath them. You may read…
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Some cravings survive long after the danger does, leaving the body to remember what the mind already knows was poison.
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The last time she saw them becomes a scene memory keeps replaying, searching ordinary details for the goodbye it did not recognize yet.
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Love did not end in one dramatic moment; it wore down slowly until the sentence finally learned where to stop.
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Some songs don’t stop belonging to you just because someone changes the dedication. This poem isn’t about ownership—it’s about memory, and how love can echo long after the music changes.
Between Bruises & Blooms 