Dudes

Dudes ask,
“what’s up?”
like the sky isn’t always empty.

I say,
nothing—literally,
because silence feels safer than truth.

Dudes say,
“let’s kick it,”
like time isn’t something I’ve already buried.

I ask,
why?

They promise,
“I’ll show you what you’ve been missing,”
as if I haven’t already lost enough
to know better.

I say,
what’s there to see
in something that fades the moment it begins?

They insist,
“come and I’ll show you,”
but I can already see it—
another echo,
another almost,
another exit wound.

I answer,
a waste of time,
because I’ve learned how endings feel
before they start.

They laugh,
“I’ll make you fall in love—
or break your heart.”

I tell them,
you’re a joke,
because my heart
is already in pieces
no one bothered to pick up.

They say,
“you’re the issue.”

And maybe I am—
a locked door,
a warning sign,
a place love doesn’t survive.

I shrug,
I told you I wasn’t ready,
but they hear challenge,
not truth.

They ask,
“why do you still respond?”

Because habit is a ghost
that keeps answering for me.

They call me
needy.

I say no—
I just don’t ignore the noise
when it knocks.

They ask,
“why do you keep going?”

Because I’m still here,
and sometimes existing
is the only answer I have.

They remind me,
“you don’t want anything to do with me.”

And they’re right—
but that doesn’t make them nothing.
Just… not mine.

They say,
“you’re weird.”

I say,
thank you,

because strange things survive
in places
ordinary things don’t.

The end.