Another Poem, Really?

I said I’d take a break—

no more stanzas, no more sighs.

But here I am again,

rhyming reasons why he lied.

My notes app is a graveyard,

full of metaphors and moons,

each one dressed in heartbreak,

spinning verses out of wounds.

Oh look—this one’s a haiku.

It ends with "you never called."

The next is six sad pages

of “I almost had it all.”

I write love like it's a hobby,

like heartbreak is a sport—

If feelings were a kingdom,

then I’d build it out of chords.

My friends say, “Girl, he’s not that deep,”

but I say, “Wait—this line!”

Then suddenly I’m weeping

over couplets in a rhyme.

It's tragic. It's magic.

It’s mildly unwell.

But if I don’t write it down,

how will I ever tell—

That once I felt something

wild and true and bright?

Even if it ghosted me

before the second night.

So here's another poem

for a boy who won’t respond,

but at least I’ll be remembered

for turning pain into a song.