By Monica Lin

Something scratches at the back of my throat,
is it a monster trying to leave,
a demon I accidentally swallowed?
Or maybe an angel, that fed me
sweetened praises, dripping honeysuckle nectar,
until I felt godlike.
These words we created were so good.

I stare at my laptop screen until the ink
blurs into a sea of black, and I find myself
pinching my skin to bring my mind back to life.
In between the void and my self-inflicted pain,
I am in the air like a wisp of cloud,
carefree and oblivious.
Then, everything swirls into
one thick slushie,
back on the ground,
and I am re-realizing my incompetence.

This used to come to me easily.
I would write, honest. Passionate.
It was simple. It was beauty.
I loved it. I love it?
I love(d) it.
Maybe I would love it more
if it wasn’t trying to leave, claw marks up my
esophagus.
Why are you going? I still loved—sorry, love you.
Come on, can’t you stay?

It slithers back down into my stomach and engraves itself
in the walls of my heart, absorbing into me.

How did we get here?
Mindlessly thumbing the pages of a notebook,
half-heartedly twirling a pen around my fingers.
I try to say how much I love you
and it comes out as a gargle of words,
poorly structured,
strung on a flimsy thread.
I write, I love you so much,
but it isn’t fully true.
You laugh at how convoluted this is.

My baby, I love you.
Let’s just keep it as simple as that.
Yet, the walls of my heart whisper,
your love is conditional,
you only love me as much as I love you back.
Heartbreaker.