I Only kill myself In Small Amounts

The outside world didn't stop.
It spun — shamefully, mercilessly —
as if nothing had been ripped from it.

No vital part missing.
No shimmer gone.
Just absence, invisible to everyone but me.

Time collapsed.
Too fast.
Too slow.
I blinked, and the coffee went cold.

Only silence left behind — loud, insistent,
the kind that hums behind your teeth
and makes you want to scream just to hear something else.

The peace feels hollow now.
Echoes where our promises used to live —
the ones we gave away like time would always stretch to hold them.

But you didn't leave all at once.
You slipped away in cruel, microscopic pieces.

The way you folded towels.
The way you scrubbed the sink.
Your scent,
that worn-out sweater,
your voice —
your laugh —
gone.

You always held me accountable.
Unyielding. Fierce.
God, I hated it.
God, I needed it.

You challenged me —
because you expected me to rise.

Thank you.
For the ache.
For the weight.
For making me sharper.

For the lessons.

You didn't vanish.
You unraveled.
And I'll carry you within me. 

Always.