Discard.

I was there too—

on the glowing end of a screen,
under the sterile halo of light
in a room that smelled of melted plastic
and worn-out promises.

I saw how she built a lush, green terrarium for him,
planted him deep in peat, gave
sun and water to just one—
and he flourished.

While she was given barely a dust bowl,
boiling winds wearing her down,
smaller and smaller, until she was
a single leaf—
a lone root—
barely a stem.

Then all the boys she made room for
wondered where she went,
as if they hadn’t gilded her with a velvet muzzle,
asked her to be a cool girl, not like the others,
asked her to be quieter, calmer, less emotional.

Imagine—a man yelling at her to be less emotional.
“Today years old,” I learned anger is not an emotion.
At least not for men.

In her compliance to be what they asked for,
the girl they liked from the start was gone.
They didn’t want the silent husk they made.

So they discard.
Discard.
Discard.
And then complain—they’re so lonely.
They miss her.
Miss what?
Miss her?
That which you wouldn’t steward?
That which you discarded?
You miss her?
After destroying every chance you got—
chances you never deserved.

You miss her? Then miss her!
But don’t mistake that for an apology;
Don’t mistake her survival for forgiveness.

She's a forest without you.