Her texts—
once oceans of emojis and
half-hearted "miss you"s—
now
arrive like dust in an empty inbox,
a tumbleweed notification.
MY SHAYLAAAA.
She used to say "hey pretty boy"
now it's
"okay."
"cool."
Seen at 3:17 PM.
AHHHHHHH.
I refresh,
refresh,
refresh—
like a madman in a Shakespearean spin-off,
waiting for a "lol"
that will never come.
MY SHAYLAAAA!
She hates me now.
I breathe and she cringes.
I exist and she blocks.
Her digital silence is louder than
any scream
I've ever heard—
and I deserve it!
Every left-on-read is
a dagger in the group chat of my soul.
She speaks to everyone else
in memes and voice notes
but to me?
Nothing.
Nothing but indifference
served cold with
a side of apathy.
AHHHHHHHHH.
My delusions gallop
through our old texts,
replaying the "ily"
like it was ever meant.
Was it?
NO.
YES?
NO.
SHE HATES MEEEEEEE—
her heart
a fortress
and I am the idiot
locked outside,
texting "love you?"
into the void.
My Shayla.
Gone like good Wi-Fi
in a tunnel of regret.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.
(She probably does not hate me,
She left me on delivered for two seconds,
Which is a criminal offence.
She hates me right?
Or am I crazy,
Nah she hates me.
Liked a message when I said kisses in French,
could be nothing,
But she could have a whole other man wanting her,
A better lover, somebody who could actually be there for her...or it is just her being busy...
BUSY BEING SERENADED BY OTHER HOESSSSSS. MY SHAYLAAAAAAA).
Silence is not a good teacher.
Oh, whimsical wretched winds of heartbreak,
take me now!
Two seconds on delivered?
TWO!
SECONDS!
Lock me up!
For I am guilty—
of caring too much,
of overthinking every vibration from my phone
like it's the heartbeat of my collapsing universe.
MY SHAYLAAAAAA!
She probably doesn't hate me.
But she MIGHT.
And that might
is a dagger dipped in insecurity,
twisting softly with every
"liked" message.
She LIKED IT
when I said "bisous" in French—
Bisous, Shayla, bisous!
What does it mean??
Was it pity?
Politeness?
Or the passive-aggressive like of
someone being courted by a poet far more poetic than me??
MY SHAYLA—WHY???
Could she be BUSY?
Busy being serenaded by OTHER HOES?
By someone who doesn't ask
if she hates them every twelve seconds
like a crumbling rom-com side character
on their fourth coffee of the night??
She could have a better man.
A man with stable Wi-Fi
and a heart that doesn't fall apart at the first ellipsis.
A man who doesn't spiral over
stuff like this, and a man who can actually show up to events!!!
Or maybe she's just eating, or praying.
Maybe she's asleep.
Maybe she's literally fine and I need to
chill.
BUT HOW
DO YOU CHILL
WHEN SHAYLA EXISTS
AND YOU'RE NOT THE CENTRE
OF HER UNIVERSE ANYMORE?!?!?!
MY SHAYLAAAAAAAAAA!
Come back to me!
Or don't.
Or do.
Or block me.
But love me once
while the stars are still above us
and my phone still has battery.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.
[cue thunder, cue violin, cue me checking her story every five minutes like a fool with a PhD in delusion]
