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High Critique » i dont really have a title rn
I don't really have a title rn
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Sometimes I wish I could hate you,
I swear I pray for it the way a drowning girl prays for air—
wild, choking, half-mad.
Because hating you would make more sense than carrying this love that gnaws through my ribs like an animal I cannot kill.
If I could hate you I wouldn’t whisper your name,
Every time the sky breaks open and the night feels too heavy for one body.
I wouldn’t keep tasting you in every stranger’s laugh,
Wouldn’t be pulled apart by the smallest things.
A word shaped like the curve of your voice,
A passing melody that I've connected to the sound of your laugh.
If I could hate you I could burn the shrine I’ve built out of accidents.
Old messages that still breathe when the screen lights up,
The echo of your voice notes like a cathedral of ghosts.
I could scrape you out of the corners of my mind
and call it healing.
But you remain.
You remain like a wound that refuses to scab,
Like glass buried beneath the skin so deep every heartbeat grinds it deeper.
You remain like a prayer I never meant to pray, but can’t unsay.
They promise you never forget your first love.
But they don’t tell you memory is a tide with teeth.
It comes when the shore is quiet,
It drags me under in the middle of laughter,
It fills my lungs with salt until I am coughing up yesterday.
My mind is a fist full of stones, and my body sharpens them.
But when I lift my arm my heart folds like wet paper.
I cannot throw.
I cannot even aim.
Sometimes I want you to suffer the way I do, to feel these nights when the air itself cuts,
But that is only a dream, a wish I hate myself for wishing.
And the cruelest truth…
The one that splits me open until I can taste every memory of us, is that if you opened the door,
I would step back into the fire without hesitation.
I would let the same flames lick the same scars raw, just to feel your warmth once more.
I thought time would dull you or grind you down to dust,
But every relic of us still flashes like a shard of sunlight
and I keep bleeding when I touch it.
And I would rather bleed a thousand times
than remember, yet remembering is all my body knows.
These are no longer memories.
They are knives.
They are the slow ruin of everything I was
before you, and yet, God help me,
I would throw myself onto those knives with a smile,
Let them carve me open again and again, if it meant for a single heartbeat,
I could be close to you again.
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