You Miss Me, But Your Ego’s Louder

She Was My Friend

She was my friend.

The kind you trust with soft things,

secrets, silence, dreams,

all the versions of yourself you don’t show anyone else.

She held them like glass.

Then dropped them.

And blamed me for the mess.

She was the one I stayed up for.

Cried to.

Cried for.

Defended in rooms she never knew I was defending her in.

And still,

she folded first.

Not quiet. Not graceful.

She folded loud, with ego.

With lies.

Now she walks around wearing my name

like it never mattered.

Tells her version of the story

like it’s the only one.

Talks about “what I did”

when all I did

was give her the kind of love

she didn’t know how to return.

She misses me.

I know she does.

She flinches when I come up.

She watches in silence.

But her pride?

It’s a fucking earthquake.

It shakes the truth

until it doesn’t look like anything real anymore.

She talks about healing.

She talks about growth.

But growth without accountability

is just performance.

And she’s always been good at putting on a show.

I wasn’t perfect,

but I was real.

And I deserved better than a friend

who could only be loyal

when the room was empty.

She was loud when it came to everyone else’s truth.

But mute when it came to her own.

You miss me.

But your ego’s louder.

And so is your guilt.

And I hope it keeps you up

the way your silence used to keep me.