Exes

 They don’t haunt me like ghosts.

Ghosts are honest.
They knock things over.
They moan.

You’re more like mold—
silent, patient,
thriving in the corners of rooms
I forgot to air out.

I loved you the way people love matches:
knowing fire is the point,
pretending surprise when the house remembers.

You left fingerprints on my throat
made entirely of apologies.
Every time I breathe too deeply,
I taste you—
rust and old promises.

We said we’re still friends,
which is just another way of saying
the knife stayed in,
and we agreed not to mention the blood.

Sometimes I catch myself missing you,
then realize
I miss the person I was
before I learned how replaceable I am.

You’re doing well now.
I know because the universe
has a sick sense of humor
and keeps forwarding me the memo.

I don’t wish you pain.
Pain ends.

I wish you the slow realization
that everyone you love next
will someday look at you
and feel tired
for reasons they can’t explain.

That’s what you gave me.
A fatigue with your name on it.

And I carry it quietly—
like a curse that learned my routine
and decided to stay.