Poetry · Loss
Rot
You disturb the quiet places within me.
Every word you utter is a blade,
driven straight through the heart you once held.
You don’t flinch—
you only smile, soft and tender,
as your fingers brush my hair,
and the knife sinks deeper.
Even as my blood runs warm,
your touch remains colder than death itself.
Your gentle hand closes around my throat,
and I whisper, have mercy,
for my life has already fled.
But you are relentless—
you strip me further still,
searching through my ruin
for something else to take.
What more could you want?
What treasure could remain
in a body emptied of its soul?
You already took what was most sacred,
what made this flesh more than bone and vein.
Now, my heart has forgotten how to beat;
my blood drags itself through my veins,
tired, unwilling, done.
The wounds you left have begun to rot,
filling the air with the scent of love’s decay.
And yet—I refuse to heal.
I clutch the pain like a relic,
the only proof that you were ever here.
I bask in the ache,
because it’s all I have left of you.
Heartbreak · Decay · Attachment
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