simonsayswrite

[simonsayswrite]

is something wrong with me?

something broken?

why can’t i let you go—

even after you’ve stepped on me a million times?

i keep buying more bandages.

telling myself maybe if i love you harder, it’ll stop hurting.

but deep down, i think it’s because

i don’t love me enough.

i sit here in a cold room,

knowing i need rest,

knowing i’ve got a 60-hour week ahead—

but all i can think about

are the memories.

the videos.

the laughing.

they hurt because i wasn’t there.

because you didn’t want me there.

because you wanted to hurt me.

and you did.

[simonsayswrite]

Stayed Home and No One Asked Why

I saw the photos.

The party looked perfect.

The dresses, the drinks, the laughter—

Even the lighting felt like it loved them.

You asked me later,

“Why didn’t you come?”

So casually.

So effortlessly.

Like I’d forgotten.

Like I hadn’t watched the invites get passed around the group chat I was in,

But not part of.

Present, but not chosen.

I wasn’t invited.

And when I didn’t show up…

No one noticed that either.

So I stayed home.

Painted on my skincare mask like armor.

Microwaved something half-frozen and called it dinner.

Scrolled through their stories with the sound off.

And waited for the ache to stop stinging.

It never did.

But the silence?

That got louder.

—Simon