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just another shattered open narrative

Writer's picture: jane doejane doe

there’s a bag on my door, green and cheap,

hanging there like your half-made promises.

it taunts me in its silence,

a constant reminder of what you left behind,

sorry, i mean,

what you never had the courage to take.


you called it poetic shit, as if it cut

at least i turn wreckage into words,

broken into beautiful,

while you sit in the silence you wield like a weapon


you shelve everything (except the actual shelf)

your ambitions, your courage,

all packed away in boxes labeled “someday”


“take an ativan”

like it could smooth the jagged edges,

like it could hold back the flood.

but i did.

i swallowed your solution,

only to spend two days

sick on the cure you handed me,

spending two days under the weight of a fix that was never meant to heal.


a whole fucking week,

blistered from my own mind,

while you were too busy

working on your car,

or, more likely, working your way into someone else


you said, “no matter what happens”

“i don’t want to lose you”

but promises crack under the weight of your neglect, my love

our first gift to us, abandoned before it could ever be given.


instead, you ran back to the job thats been bleeding you dry,

and to a life where “safe” is synonymous with “used”


stay tucked beneath that roof,

safe from the storm love brings.

it suits you i guess,

a man who mistakes comfort for purpose,

who trades the weight of devotion

for the ease of wandering eyes

and hands too timid to hold anything that burns.


love demands more than safety.

it blooms in the cracks of doubt,

braving the sharp edges of risk.


the bag will go into a box eventually.

the letters, the pictures, the life i imagined,

already regretfully sealed inside,

a reminder of the mess you left behind.


leave the envelopes sealed.

it’s 10 weeks of love letters, october to january

words bled for a man [who i believed] knew how to hold love

without letting it slip through the gaps of hesitation

a love too heavy for you to hold


love letters written out of promise- for a promise,

not a placeholder.

and my dear, you always knew

you were never going to be anything more than


just

another

shattered

open

narrative

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