the liar with pretty hands

Nostalgia knocks on my door,

lipsticked and lovely,

pressing Polaroids into my palms,

polished brighter than you ever were.

she blurs the fights out,

paints your voice softer,

your leaving kinder,

your eyes still looking for me.

Nostalgia hands me your brightest smile,

dressed in red and blue and ruin,

and it whispers: 

“look how beautiful it was,

even as it killed you.”

so i bite down on the memory.

savoring sweetness and all of the tanginess

that never lived outside of my skull,

while the truth slumbers,

heavy and ugly, 

all beneath my ribs.

and i catch myself peeling the time back like skin,

finding you fossilized between my ribs.

your name and touch still written there,

burned into the marrow.

then she walks closer to me slowly,

my heartache keeps growing,

as i know it Nostalgia sews you into my organs delicately,

sutures your sighs into the soft parts,

threads your laughter through arteries.

she keeps whispering right beside my ears to sell your smile, like a souvenir,

handmade lies perfectly curated in ribbon,

marked authentic and unique. 

“all special. 

and yours only. 

this is the best offer that you'll ever get, 

then why resist?”

however, Nostalgia acts kinder than you,

you were trying to hold the heart that can't be stored,

pressing it too hard, too rough,

as if i'm a moth pinned to glass.

and every step you took closer,

was a knife slipping between my weakened bones,

a surgeon with no oath, no mercy.

but Nostalgia is a beautiful, convincing liar.

i let myself lay open and let every sweet fiction you left behind spilling,

gutting the fairy tale with trembling hands.

yet, the truth is,

there is no cure for a wound you begged to keep.

there is no resurrection for a boy who was already halfway gone. 

there's only Nostalgia left behind, and she carves you prettier than you ever were,

tucks the broken parts under velvet,

and tells me,

“it was real.”

and i almost believe it.