+ that name you haven’t used in years and the spike of cortisol when you hear it

 

+ you feel like you’re walking on stilts

 

+ strong winds

 

+ the smell of wet sand

 

+ standing on a fire escape with trembling legs

 

+ throwing up honey

 

+ you’re you and you’re scared

 

+ you’re you and you’re proud

 

+ visiting your hometown

 

+ fireworks

 

+ the corpses of every other person you could have been

 

+ wondering if you’re the version of yourself you should have been

 

+ you’re you and you’re not the best version of yourself, but it’s okay because you’re

  the version that made it out alive

​

+ you can hurt me but you can’t stop me moving on

​

+ it hurts so much to remember, but remembering means that it’s over; and it’s over means

  that it’s closing time and you can move on to new regrets in the morning

​

+ giving them the countless poems you’ve written over the years, because that time you

  swore you were over them, and you swore it was for good, but it never was

​

+ but now the one who will never cease receiving goodbye poems has moved out of your

  heart to a town somewhere up north and the last poem they got was about how much you

  miss having feelings for them

​

+ going to that soft, grassy hill you’ve always dreamed of taking them to, but you’re

  alone

​

+ crying on the metro

​

+ everything you don’t want to admit