You thought I’d beg, fall to my knees,That heartbreak hit like some disease.You walked away like I was dust—But made one fatal flaw: your trust. You …
Checkmate, Darling
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Don’t give me your sorry.It’s a trick.A smoke signal after the fire’s already swallowed the house.You always show upwhen there’s nothing left to save…
Spare Me -
Don’t give me your sorry.
It’s a trick.
A smoke signal after the fire’s already swallowed the house.
You always show up
when there’s nothing left to save.You think I’m stupid.
That I’ll flinch at your voice
go soft when you say the word just right—
like it’s a spell
like it’s supposed to undo the blood on the floor
and the shit you left in my head.“Sorry.”
You say it like it costs you something.
It doesn’t.
It’s free for you.
Cheap, even.
You spit it out and move on.
But I stay here,
picking up the pieces
your apology never touches.Do you even hear yourself?
Do you even know how many times I’ve swallowed the same lie
because you dressed it in guilt
and called it growth?If you were sorry,
you’d shut the fuck up
and stop doing it.But you don’t.
You never do.So don’t hand me that word again.
Don’t shape your mouth like regret
if it’s just a shape.
Don’t look at me like I’m supposed to feel healed
because you mouthed some tired syllables.You want forgiveness?
Earn it.
But don’t hold your breath.I’m not interested.
Not in your guilt.
Not in your guilt parade.
Not in anything
that starts with “I’m sorry”
and ends with me hurting
again. -
You thought I’d beg, fall to my knees,
That heartbreak hit like some disease.
You walked away like I was dust—
But made one fatal flaw: your trust.You trusted I would break and bend,
That love would leave me in the end.
But I don’t shatter, I ignite—
And burn much brighter out of spite.You thought I’d drown, too weak to swim,
While you played king in castles grim.
But I rose fast, and here’s what’s true:
The ashes made a sharper you.You found a doll, all gloss, no soul—
Just someone else to lose control.
You traded gold for glitter’s hue,
And every lie? It stuck to you.Now I wear silence like a blade,
A quiet cut from dues unpaid.
No screams, no scenes—I let you stew,
While every win says jokes on you.You scroll my life, pretend you don’t,
You want to reach, but know you won’t.
You lit the match—I struck it too.
Guess fire’s fun… ’til it burns through.You lost the war, and I won’t gloat,
But watch your pride begin to choke.
You bet on me to break in two—
But look who’s laughing. Jokes on you. -
It started with heat—
the kind that makes you believe
in forever.
Crackling promises,
light licking the walls,
shadows moving like they had purpose.But fires don’t burn for belief.
They burn for fuel.
And we ran out
quietly.Now the flame clings,
low and bitter,
spitting more smoke than warmth.
A stubborn thing,
not alive,
just refusing to admit
it’s dead.No blaze.
No final flare.
Just the long, slow rot
of something once alive.
The wood turns to ash
without complaint,
and the room forgets
what warmth felt like.We sit in it—
the silence,
the cool.
Pretending we don’t notice
the smoke in our lungs.
Pretending we can fix it
if we just fan harder.But breath can’t save a dying thing
that wants to go.
And this one
wants to go.It sputters.
Coughs.
Collapses into itself,
and still we watch
like maybe it’ll change its mind.
Like maybe regret
burns hot enough
to bring it back.It doesn’t.
It never does.You stay anyway.
Even when the dark settles in,
and the ashes don’t even glow.
Even when your hands
forget what heat ever meant.
Because leaving feels worse
than watching it end.And in the end,
all that’s left
is the stink of smoke,
a blackened hearth,
and silence
that used to be
a song. -
He tells people I’m nothing—
loud enough that it circles back,
like poison in a glass
he thinks I’ll drink.he says I’m fake,
a flirt,
attention-starved—
but he watches every move
like I’m the main event.
posts about me without saying my name,
then stares across the room,
waiting to see if I flinch.he gets close.
too close.
brushing past me like it’s accidental,
like the heat between us is just physics
and not something he’s been feeding.he rolls his eyes at my laugh
but leans in to hear it better.
he mocks my clothes,
then finds excuses to stand behind me,
talking too low,
his breath hitting the back of my neck.he wants me rattled.
off balance.
he wants to know I’m thinking about him
even when he’s cruel.
especially when he’s cruel.he walks past me
like I’m invisible—
until no one’s around,
and then it’s
I looked good yesterday.
like a bruise with a compliment taped on top.he keeps his hands clean
but sets the fire,
watching from a safe distance
while I try to make sense
of wanting to punch him
and kiss him
at the same time.he hates me,
but not enough to let go.
he wants me close—
just close enough to ruin.and I hate that part of me
still wants to know
what it would feel like
if he ever touched me
without turning it into a weapon. -
Men in different area codes,
fucking like they’re trying to outrun something—
in motel rooms with the blinds half-open,
in backseats,
on kitchen counters,
with names they won’t remember,
or ones they shouldn’t have remembered.In 818, he pulls her hair
while she rides him slow,
one hand on her throat,
the other gripping her thigh like a lifeline.
He calls it dominance—
but he just doesn’t know how to ask for love.In 773,
he fucks her from behind,
eyes on the mirror,
watching her mouth fall open,
chest slapping against cheap sheets.
No words,
just sweat and grunts and the kind of silence
that says this isn’t going anywhere.In 214,
he eats her out like he needs it more than she does,
tongue working circles until her whole body arches,
and when she finally lets go,
he closes his eyes like it’s a prayer answered.There’s a guy in 404
who texts “come through” at 2 a.m.,
and when she does,
he barely says hello—
just pushes her up against the door,
pants halfway down,
his mouth on her neck,
his need showing through every shaky breath.
After, he scrolls his phone,
her head on his chest,
and they both pretend it means nothing.In 619,
he begs her to sit on his face—
and she does,
grinding slow while his hands dig into her hips,
moaning like the world’s ending
and this is the only way out.Men in different area codes,
fucking to feel,
fucking to forget,
fucking just because it’s the only time
they let go of everything else.
Bodies used like confessions—
some honest,
some desperate,
all of them
looking for something
they don’t have the words to name. -
You still let me fuck you.
No words.
No foreplay.
Just pull your underwear to the side,
get it over with.You don’t moan.
I don’t care.
It’s not about connection.
It’s about killing time.
Burning the edge off.Afterward, you wipe yourself,
don’t say a word.
I don’t either.
We don’t look at each other.
We haven’t in months.You used to smile after sex.
Now you just leave the room.We eat dinner in silence.
Scroll our phones like addicts.
Sleep back to back,
if we sleep at all.You cry sometimes in the bathroom.
I hear you.
I don’t go in.
I just turn the volume up
on whatever bullshit I’m watching.We both know this is over.
Has been.
But leaving takes effort.
And effort’s for. -
The first button slips—
thumb and finger,
slow twist,
and I’m already breathing easier.Second one,
then third,
the line down my chest starts to open
like a thought I’d been holding back.You’re watching—
I can feel it,
that weightless kind of heat.I don’t ask if you like what you see.
I already know.My hands keep moving,
pulling fabric from skin,
layer by layer,
not in a rush—
but not shy either.By the time the last one’s undone,
I’m not hiding anything.
And I don’t want to. -
Don’t worry, I’m not coming for you—
free verse poems don’t follow orders anyway.They sprawl where they want,
cut lines mid-thought,
leave punctuation in the dust,
and whisper things they never explain.They’re the friend who shows up uninvited
but somehow knows exactly when to bring coffee
and shut up.So no, I’m not coming for you—
but if a poem happens to show up,
unshaven, barefoot,
mumbling your name—
well, that’s between you and it.
Whispers In Verse 