Waiter, serve me the truth on a spit-covered plate

with the crooked silverware of our last chat.
I want to swallow the raw indifference,
taste what was left between the lines.

Don’t bring me peace
bring the bill.
With the names scratched out
and the toasts turned away.

I tried.
God, I tried to be understood,
with words that bled more than they cut.
But no one ever asked if I meant x because y
they only heard the scream.

And now?
Now I’m the drama.
I’m the echo of 2020’s friend group,
the recycled trauma,
the weight no one wants to carry.

I love you.
But that was never enough
to stop the rope from snapping.

So...
with dry tears and a hollow chest,
I leave the table.

Not because I hate you.
But because I learned that love
also means knowing when to leave
before it all turns to wreckage.

Goodbye.
Pay the bill with what’s left of us.