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.