Stop Looking at My Stories

I haven’t seen this since you left—

your name and image under my story.

I used to check and see if you saw what I posted,

because every post was for you.

I haven’t searched for you since it was obvious you weren’t coming back,

since you stopped replying when I was drinking

and could no longer hold back from reaching out,

when the fog of alcohol and missing you

became too desperate to have you back.

It’s not the vibe. It’s not cute.

I’m embarrassed and confused: did I imagine our connection?

Was any of us real, or a trauma bond that let us survive

the worst of what we endured?

I thought you were the love of a lifetime,

but as the whiskey film slowly falls from my eyes,

I see clearly what you have always said:

I do love you more than you love me.

So I unfriended you and deleted you from my phone,

because I hate myself for messaging you,

and I hate myself even more when you don’t respond.

I have no self-control, so I needed to place you out of reach.

But here you are again.

You searched me out.

Is it a coincidence that I met your friend at a party today and we hit it off?

Did she reach out to you and ask about me?

What do I do with this?

I’ll stare at your name and picture a little longer,

let the nostalgia of the memory have its time,

then back to the grind—

because nothing I post is for you anymore.