Waiter, serve me the truth on a bleeding plate.

Loving you turned the rot inside my ribs
into something that almost felt alive —
a carcass blooming with wild mushrooms,
moths with glass wings, their dust clotting my veins.

You mistake decay for alchemy.
Rot stays rot, even when it glows.

I’d search for you in every person I meet —
in every fever dream that smelled like rain —
their hands, their laugh, the way they say my name…
the way their shadow fit mine…

You’ll die thirsty, then.
Saltwater can’t uncurl this drought.
Ghosts don’t quench hunger.

You could slit my throat, and with my last breath —

— you’d apologize. Pathetic.
Even your pain is a love letter
folded into origami razors, a nest of wasps I swallowed whole.

Intimacy is more than lust. Show me your soul —

Souls are overrated.
Here’s the truth: you’re just chemicals screaming at chemicals.

But the flowers in my lungs…

Not flowers. Thorns.
You’re choking on the roots we never pulled
when the soil still pretended to be fertile.

But he said, ‘If we break up, it’ll be you leaving first.’

Wrong.
You left first — the moment you mistook my silence for surrender,
the day you planted thorns and called them flowers.

Then why does it still —

— hurt?
Because you keep eating the rot and calling it holy.

I’m so stupid.

No.
Just human.
We’re both just ash waiting for wind.
Now pay the bill and get out.