i was invited.
officially.
and of course, i saw it—
your name.
his name.
that stupid fucking grey dress you wore
like a poetic punch to my face.
i drank for three nights.
straight.
vodka.
whiskey.
beer i didn't even like.
songs i shouldn't hear.
i wanted to crash the wedding.
or the after-party.
or my fucking car into something.
but i didn't.
i just died quietly,
with every sip,
every song,
every flashback of you in black.
and on the third morning,
my hands shaking,
my brain splitting in half,
i picked up my phone.
no long speech.
no final confession.
no "i should've been the one."
just—
"congratulations, Hazel."
you replied
with a heart emoji.
and i knew.
you had no idea
how much of me
just died
again.