Before her, I had edges. I knew where I ended and the world began. Now? Everything bleeds. A certain song. A street corner. A perfume in an elevator. And suddenly I’m not a person anymore. I’m just a wound with a pulse.
She ruined me in the way she said “goodnight” the last time—soft, ordinary, final. Like closing a book she’d already finished reading. I didn’t know I was a chapter. I thought I was the whole story. she ruined me, deeper
She didn’t break me. She unmade me. Thread by thread. Hour by hour. Before her, I had edges
Memory fades. This is deeper. This is habit . I still make coffee for two. I still turn my head to say something funny to a chair that’s empty. I still dream in the grammar of “we.” And every morning, I have to learn the language of “me” all over again. And every morning, I fail. Everything bleeds
And I don’t know how to build a new god out of these ashes.