Until You're Not
It starts like it always does.
She sat across the table, cigarette dangling,
like she knew something the rest of us didn’t.
She smiled like she'd tasted God and spit him out,
and I thought, there’s someone worth knowing.
She had stories.
Oh, they all have stories—
ex-lovers who stole cars,
drunken nights that ended with broken teeth
and fistfights under neon lights.
Her laugh was whiskey in a glass,
low, warm, just dangerous enough.
For weeks, she was everything.
We drank, we talked, we pretended.
About what, I can’t even tell you now.
I was fascinated—
she could hold court in a dive bar
like a queen of dirty saints,
telling stories about broken men
with broken dreams
and broken spines.
She liked her truths ugly,
because they were real.
But eventually, you’ve heard it all.
You’ve seen the same smirk in every photo.
The stories start looping—
the car thief ex-lover becomes just a guy,
the broken teeth are just bad decisions,
and the fistfights just get old.
The magic wears off.
She tells the same joke she told the first night,
and I laugh, but only because it’s easier
than saying,
"you’re interesting, until you’re not."
Her voice becomes static.
Her smoke, suffocating.
And you’re left staring at her
in some late-night bar,
wondering what changed.
But you know.
You always know.
It wasn’t her—
it was you.
It’s always you.
You’re the one who gets bored.
You’re the one who chews through the shine,
spits out the bone,
and moves on.
And there’s nothing worse than knowing
that someone who once lit you on fire
is now just ash
on your sleeve.
You order another drink,
she laughs that same whiskey laugh,
and you realize—
this is how it ends.
Not with a fight.
Not with a word.
But with a silence
that stretches too long,
and a thought you don’t say aloud:
"You're interesting... until you're not anymore."
And you walk out,
because it’s easier
than staying.
