Wuthering Shites

Or 'lust mixed with unresolved attachment and a lot of toxic ego'

They told me the wind would carry you,

that the moor would teach me how to ache beautifully.

They dressed your selfishness in weather,

your cowardice in fog.

But I watched you choose a house with walls,

a name with weight,

a future that fit in polite rooms.

You chose comfort

and kept the language of hunger in your mouth.

You called it fate when you came back for him.

You called it love when you reached for what you’d already left.

But it was only want —

raw, grabbing, unashamed of the bodies it climbed over.

You don’t get to marry safety

and then cry that fire burns you.

You don’t get to build a life

and then knock on the door of the one you abandoned

like grief is a permission slip.

This isn’t romance.

It’s appetite wearing a dead woman’s perfume.

It’s two people mistaking damage for destiny

and calling the wreckage poetry.