My Beloved Curse

 
I wish I'd never heard your name,
never seen the way your eyes dim when you say,
"I'm sorry for existing."
I wish I'd never known the sound
of your laughter—fragile, fleeting,
like a melody played on a broken string.

Because now I can’t forget.
Now you are etched into the quiet spaces of my mind,
where even the ghosts of old highs can’t touch you.
Now I care—
not because I have to, not because I should,
but because you are something
too rare to ignore.

And it hurts.
It hurts to know that you can’t see
what I see when I look at you.
Not a burden. Not a mistake.
Not some storm waiting to be chased away.
You are light breaking through
a sky I thought was dead.
You are art, a masterpiece carved from fire,
still standing, still breathing,
still here.

I hate that I met you,
because now even the worst days—
the ones where my skin is electric with craving,
where my bones scream for a poison lullaby—
still feel like something I can survive
if I spend them with you.
A day withdrawing is hell,
but a day withdrawing next to you
is still a kind of heaven.

I wish I could make you see
the way your presence drowns out the echoes,
the way your voice makes the world feel
a little less heavy.
But you don’t believe me.
You turn away,
whispering that you’re just another problem
to be dealt with and removed.

But I can’t remove you.
I don’t want to.
I don’t care how much it hurts—
you are the wound I refuse to close,
the beautiful curse I’ll carry
until the weight of it
finally breaks me.