I got away

And I know it haunts you

You can’t wrap regret in satin.
Not at someone’s funeral.
Not when the dirt still smells like your fear.
Not when the air still clings to your teeth like words you swallowed.
Not when the quiet feels heavier than the prayers.
Not when the lid shuts on every version of me you sculpted in your head.

You can’t perfume guilt.
You can’t dress it up and pretend it isn’t rotting.
Regret doesn’t arrive in velvet.
It comes barefoot, with dirt under its nails,
scratching at the edges of your pride.
You can’t cry pretty enough
to make forgetting look holy.

Try burying me in your mind
like a secret you want dead.
Try calling me a mystery
like that makes you deep instead of dishonest.
Try forgetting I left a mark
like a freckle that always shows up in the light.
Try scrubbing me out of your story
but you can’t.
I was the plot.
You were the footnote.

You’ll always be the person you were
when I left you.
Still small.
Still afraid.
Still pretending.
Still spreading lies.
Still talking about me

because I’m the only interesting thing
to ever happen in your life.

It was easier to bad-mouth my name
than admit how you begged.
It was easier to say I was cruel
than to tell people how I was the only one
who ever looked at you
and didn’t flinch.

But go ahead.
Keep rewriting the story.
Say it was me.
Say it was madness.
Say it was magic you couldn’t hold onto.

Either way, I escaped.
And you’re still there,
gripping the ghost of me
with bloodless hands.