🥀 “He Brought Flowers”

(for the ones who keep forgiving too early)

He brought flowers.

Not a sorry.

Not the truth.

Just petals.

He didn’t say

why he vanished

or why I cried

into the pillow

he used to call mine.

He brought tulips.

But no tenderness.

Roses.

But no remorse.

A bouquet of silence

wrapped in temporary effort.

I stood there,

hands full of pretty,

heart full of questions.

Again.

And like always,

I wondered:

Was I overreacting,

or just finally reacting

to all the things I buried

under love songs and late replies?

He brought flowers.

But never the thing I needed.

Never the version of him

that didn’t disappear

when it mattered most.

So this time,

I placed them in water.

But I did not place him

back in my heart.

Because I finally realized

flowers are not apologies.

They’re distractions

with good lighting.

What I Meant to Say

What I meant to say

was:

you hurt me.

What I actually said

was:

it’s okay.

I’ve been

translating pain

into politeness

my whole life.

No more.

Rewritten In silence

I don’t write about you anymore

not out of peace,

but preservation.

Some names

begin to rot

if spoken too often.

I’ve buried yours

beneath metaphors and

half-meant endings,

hoping no reader would guess

you were once the whole story.

You were never a chapter

you were the ink.

But even ink runs dry.

And now I write in pencil,

so I can erase

the echoes of you

before they stain the page.

Because healing

isn’t about forgetting.

It’s about

rewriting.

And this time,

I am the hand

holding the pen.