The Last Call

(A Dark Humor Poem) - Caution: This content contains mature language and themes that may not be suitable for all audiences. Trigger Warning

He called me at 10, like ghost always do right when your peace is settling in, and the quiet feels like closure. His name flashed on my screen, and my stomach said, Don't you dare, but my heart said, Just one more time.

He started crying before he even said hi, slurring through tears, breathing like regret had a heartbeat. "I fucked up," he said. And I thought, Wow, deja vu, what chapter are we on now?

"Calm down, I told him. "Talk to me, breathe; what's wrong this time?" Because that is what I use to do soothe the storm, translate the chaos. But this time, the storm wasn't mine to manage.

He sobbed. Then came the confession parade. A classic narcissist crime. He's been seeing a girl. She got pregnant. Then she lost the baby. "She reminds me of you," he said. "She acts like you", he sniffled mid-cry, talks like you... but she's crazy." (Oh honey join the line.)

I almost laughed. Almost.

Because if she's crazy, I must've been the curriculum. Maybe she's just learning from the master.

Then came the bragging, something you're good at. He mentioned law braking activities with his cousin, he bought a brand new truck well new to him, he just had to show that off. He said he missed me. That he always would. That no one would ever "fuck me like he does." Somehow, through tears, he made it all about him,

I wanted to clap. Truly, standing ovation energy. Because that't not a compliment that's a confession. And honestly, I hope on one ever does.

He said, "I'd cheat on a bitch with you."

And I thought, Wow, poetry.

Somewhere, Shakespeare just rolled in his grave.

I stayed quiet, because silence now feels like power. He didn't know what to do with that. He started spiraling, hanging up, calling back, crying, shouting, looping. I just sat there, watching the man who once called me crazy lose his grip on his own reflection.

When he finally calmed down, He said it like a final punchline:

"You have to understand, we'll never, ever, ever be together again."

"I hear you," I smiled, "and I agree."

"I don't love you, I added." "You're not for me. I've moved on. I'm healing, I'm focused, and I'm not seeing anyone, my goal is building my life back up from the ground and shocker, it's peaceful without that strife. That is where my energy is, not on us."

He laughed.

Sent a fist bump emoji.

I laughed too, because if that isn't the perfect symbol for emotional immaturity, I don;t know what is.

He used to throw words like knives, now he sends emojis like band-aids. Progress, I guess.

He said, "I'll always miss you, but we ain't good together." And for once, he wasn't lying.

I told him, "I'll always miss you too, but that doesn't change where I'm going."

He smiled, that same grin he used when he thought he'd won me back before. But this time, I didn't flinch.

Because I've seen this movie, and I already know the ending.

He hangs up, probably expecting me to chase, to text, to wonder, to break. Intead, I left his messages unread, light a candle, and laugh.

Because love with a narcissist isn't romance, it's stand-up comedy where the punchline is your own sanity.

And baby, I've had enough encores.

Now I sleep fine, Now I eat again, Now I write poems instead of apologies.

He's out there telling another girl she reminds him of me. And she probably smiles, thinking it's sweet. But one day, she'll figure it out too: he doesn't want love, he wants a mirror.

So cheers to him, his truck, his tears, his imaginary soulmates and half sincere fears. He can keep his drama, his chaos, his show because I've finally learned to clap for myself and go.