The world may call it a second chance but it felt more like a relapse

You called,
your voice a ghost pressed to the receiver,
and I swore I’d never answer.
But your name cracked open my resolve
like a spine bent too far on a paperback heart.

Giving you another chance
felt like drinking to forget sobriety,
like drowning in the same shallow pool
you swore you’d drain last summer.
Every “I’m sorry” tasted like
a bittersweet relapse,

warm but wrong on my tongue.

the days blur like ink bleeding
through this year’s planner—
another smudge, another promise undone.
The truth?
I’m terrified of the blank spaces.
Terrified you’ll fill them
with the same lies
in a different font.

I gave you a second chance,
and it felt like pulling a splinter
only to push the shard deeper.
Maybe love is just a relapse
we tell ourselves we can handle,
a song we can’t stop humming,
even after it ruins the silence.