I Stopped Chasing Clarity

I stopped chasing clarity
from people married to confusion,
tired of mistaking your chaos
for depth or illusion.

I used to sit across from you
like a student of smoke,
trying to take notes
from something that would not hold shape.

You answered in riddles,
in half-truths rehearsed,
every “I care” whispered
but carefully reversed.

You called me dramatic
for wanting things plain,
as if asking for truth
was a selfish refrain.

You spoke in almosts.
Almost love.
Almost truth.
Almost choosing me.

I studied your silences,
annotated your tone,
turned crumbs into feasts
so I wouldn’t feel alone.

You dealt in almosts,
in maybes and might,
kept me half-held
but never held tight.

I built a home out of almost
and wondered why it kept collapsing.

Begging for a straight line
from someone who loved circles,
tracing your patterns
until hope turned to hurdles.

I built us a future
from smoke and delay,
kept pleading with tomorrow
to fix yesterday.

The cruelest part
was how you made confusion feel like depth.
Like if I just swam a little longer,
I would reach an understanding
instead of drowning.

You said I was overthinking,
that I needed to trust,
but clarity withers
when watered with dust.

So I buried the questions
I laid at your door,
stopped asking a heart
that could not give more.

I twisted myself into softer questions.
I sharpened myself into quieter needs.
I rehearsed calm in the mirror

so you wouldn’t call me dramatic
for bleeding where you cut me.

And losing you cut,
but losing me more,
so I chose the clean silence
that closes a door.