Relief

Begin by logging out.

Not just from the noise and doubt —

from every role you had to play,

from the last “I’m fine” you couldn’t say.

Mute the threads. Archive the past.

Erase the names that didn’t last.

Let the screen forget your face,

especially the smile you wore with grace.

Swallow your grin — it wasn’t true.

It was stitched together just for view.

Let your mouth unlearn that shape.

Let softness in. Let silence drape.

Speak a little less each day,

until the quiet feels okay.

Until the air becomes your friend,

and needing words comes to an end.

Leave the chat. Block their name.

Delete the shots that fed the flame.

Photos where you thought you’d heal,

before you learned that love could steal.

Sleep like vanishing is a rite.

Disappear deep into night.

Call it healing if you must.

Call it truth. Call it dust.

When they ask where you have been,

don’t say: I’m going to sleep.

Just say: Busy. Nothing deep.

Don’t announce the final act.

This isn’t grief. This isn’t tact.

This is relief, a clean release —

the moment you let longing cease.

Burn the need to be adored.

Ashes don’t beg to be restored.

Let the loss remake your form —

even after they called you a storm.

If you reach the edge, don’t fall.

Sit with it. Don’t hear the call.

Let the pain confess its name,

but don’t return from where it came.

You are not weak for walking free.

You are sacred still — just finally being

the quiet no one else could see.