I kept a cracked crown on the shelf,
polished it like it meant something.
I should have noticed the grime beneath the gold paint,
the way it flaked when I breathed near it.
Your throne of narcissistic lies was always paper.
I planted hope in the dark anyway.
Thought love would find a way through dead soil.
Watered it with apologies that were never mine.
Waited for light that never came.
Some nights felt warm
like a fire that invites you close
then steals your breath.
I mistook smoke for comfort.
You mistook my silence for devotion.
Healing came slow.
Quiet.
Like a municipal truck rumbling at dawn
while the neighborhood sleeps.
One memory hauled off, then another,
until only the bin remained.
Heavy, but less than it used to be.
I still cross your path
like someone passing the same broken streetlamp,
knowing exactly how the shadows fall.
You’re familiar now, not dangerous.
A burned out bulb pretending to glow.
This is the last bag at the curb.
The one with the things I never said.
Lift it or leave it.
The truck comes either way.
