Amelia James Poetry

some days
i forget the sound of your laugh
and i think,
“this must be progress.”

but then
i pass someone wearing your cologne
and suddenly I’m twenty-one again,
and you’re standing too close
with that crooked smile
that always meant trouble.

i keep your name
pressed between the pages of a story
i don’t read anymore.
but i still won’t throw it out.

i’m not sure if i’m healing
or just learning
how to carry the weight quieter.

you’re not in my dreams
as often now.
but when you are
i wake up aching—
not for you,
just for who i was
before you made me forget myself.

i’m standing on the edge
of remembering you completely
and forgetting you entirely,
and honestly?
i don’t know
which one hurts less.

you took years
like they were yours to borrow—
like i wouldn’t notice
they were missing
until it was too late
to ask for them back.

you left me rebuilding
with shaky hands
and a mouth full of apologies
that should’ve been yours.

i learned how to swallow silence
because speaking up
made me the problem.
funny how that works.

you got to move on—
fresh start, clean slate.
meanwhile,
i was scrubbing your fingerprints
off every version of me
you touched
and then left
unclaimed.

i’m not bitter.
i’m just done pretending
that survival was some kind of gift
you left me with.

you didn’t break me,
but god,
you wasted me.

-Amelia James