Things I Used to Believe In

1. That if I loved someone hard enough, they would never leave.

2. That being kind would keep me safe.

3. That love could fix things. Or at least make them bearable.

4. That someone out there would understand me—not just the surface stuff, but the storm inside.

5. That I could build a family, not just have one. One made of choice, warmth, late-night laughter, and safety.

6. That one day, my softness would be my power—not my weakness.

7. That my voice mattered, even when I wasn’t okay.

8. That being “difficult” just meant I was real. Not broken. Not unworthy. Just real.

9. That there was magic in the world. Not the glitter kind—just… meaning. Tiny signs that I wasn’t alone.

10. That healing would come. Maybe slowly, maybe sideways. But eventually.

I’ll help you burn it in ink / I saw you again

 Dear Ghost,

Ten years. That’s how long I gave you.

Ten years of my time, my trust, my heart.

And you didn’t even have the decency to say goodbye.

You didn’t break up with me.

You broke me.

And then you disappeared.

Do you know what that does to someone?

To be left like a forgotten voicemail—like a book you got bored of halfway through?

To look at my phone for weeks, months, years, hoping silence might finally say something?

You didn’t just leave—you erased me.

I hope my memory finds you in the quiet moments.

I hope it lingers when you rock your daughter to sleep.

I hope when she asks you what love is, you feel a flicker of shame.

Because you had it. And you threw it away like it meant nothing.

I don’t wish you death. But I wish you reckoning.

I hope my name tightens in your throat when you try to lie to yourself.

I hope your happiness is haunted by the truth of what you did to someone who would’ve given you the world.

You don’t get to forget me.

I was real. I mattered.

Even if you pretended I didn’t.