I woke with dread, a hollow ache,
curled up tight, too numb to wake.
I stretched my limbs, but all I found—
a vacant space, a cold sunk mound.
I closed my eyes, the visions spun,
rewinding scenes I couldn’t outrun.
A diner bright, a plastic tray,
they swore I’d ordered the wrong way.
I pled my case, but in the end,
defeat became my closest friend.
It shifted.
A wedding, maybe—was it a ball?
He’d vanish, leave, ignore my call.
I waited, waited, breath held tight,
he strolled back in without a fight.
A friend appeared, her voice was low,
“Come to the room. You’ll want to know.”
The cameras glowed—a thousand eyes,
but none could catch his alibis.
Then there he was, at ease, supreme,
surrounded, basking in the gleam.
I took his phone—his secrets, bare.
Her name, her name—her name was there.
And there. And there. And there again.
I tossed it back. I’m at my end.
A fire rose inside my chest,
a fury, breathless, dispossessed.
No. Not again, not me, not now.
I clenched my fists and furrowed brow.
I passed her chair; she met my gaze,
her voice was soft, her words a haze—
“You’re making a scene. I only care.”
Her lips curled up; she tossed her hair.
My fingers traced her golden strands.
I smiled, I spoke, I clenched my hands.
“You care? That’s sweet. A noble view.”
I pulled her close. “But not quite true.”
She winced.
I let her go.
Across the room, he stretched, reclined,
his voice a blade, his words unkind.
“Couldn’t sleep—was up till two.
Then woke up to a moose like you.”
An inside joke, now sharp as knives.
A golden watch, a perfect weight,
I didn’t flinch, gave in to fate—
a perfect throw, a single aim—
but missed. Another took the blame.
The anger dimmed, the moment passed,
a woman’s voice, unsure, aghast—
“Was that by chance, or was it true?”
My breath was ragged, tears broke through.
“I meant for it to strike his head.
He called me moose.”
She smiled. She said,
“That makes sense.”
A nod. A bow. A final thread.
And I awoke—
alone in bed.
Kailani is an amateur writer. She writes for the love of writing. It is her sincerest form of expression—a way to put her wide-ranging ideas and life experiences into something cohesive. As a clinical therapist, she helps others find, listen to, and use their voice. And her writing is her voice. The world as she experiences it is her inspiration, and her love of personal flair fuels her style. She doesn’t think she’s to write the next great American novel, but she’s to write something. Stay curious.
Featured image by Uday Mittal on unsplash.
