Don’t say love

if you can’t hold the aftermath.

Don’t say need

with your suitcase open.

You like a tidy narrative.

I’m the problem; you’re the plot.

To my face you crown me “best,”

to the room you brief “containment.”

You love stories that much?

Fine. I’ll give you more data than you can graph.

You didn’t lock the door.

You just let the hinges rust.

Called it weather. Called it time.

Said you hated cages while resting in mine.

I went still the way buildings do.

Load-bearing, quiet, certified safe.

You called that “cold.”

I called it passing inspection with a crack in the wall.

You liked me powerless.

Not gone, useful. Available hate,

kept in the cabinet for nights you needed a villain

to make your hero read clearer.

Predictable, to me.

Illegible, to everyone else.

They said I was sick.

But your hands wrote the diagnosis.

Don’t say love

if the first emergency is always my fault.

Don’t say need

while practicing exits.

We broke each other, yes.

But only one of us learned to sweep.

So take your bow, protagonist.

I’ll be the outline left after rain,

the signage ghost no one admits seeing.

Still pointing, even when the letters are gone.