You don’t get to haunt me.

Not after the way you left.

Not after you made me feel safe,

then vanished like I was a bad dream

you didn’t want to remember.

You don’t get to live

in my sheets,

my playlists,

my “maybe he’s just busy.”

You are not busy.

You are gutless.

You said I was beautiful.

Said I was brave.

Said I was healing,

and you were honored to be part of that.

Liar.