You called him Joe.
I called him jerk.
White skin, tall, too thin,
but he wore your years
like a chain around your neck.
Toxic, on and off,
dreaming about a wedding planner business,
selling secondhand stuffs,
sharing cigarettes and sins—
you with his sister,
you in his family.
You told me his lies,
how he fucked around,
how he broke your heart
again, again, again.
And I burned inside,
because even after all that,
you still picked up his calls,
you still answered his texts,
you still drunk-called him once—
and I hated him for it.
I hated myself more.
Because maybe
I wasn't so different.
Cheating on Iris with thoughts of you,
lying through my teeth,
telling you we're "just friends"
when I drowned in you deeper than anyone.
Joe was the worst.
But he was still there,
in your history,
in your memory,
in your veins like poison you couldn't bleed out.
And I—
I was terrified
that maybe I was just another Joe.
another mistake.