My Body Didn't Get the Memo

I told the truth.

I ended it.

I welded the door shut—

sealed it with fire and fury and finality.

He will not enter again.

The body remembers what the soul has already refused.

But my body…

my body didn’t get the memo.

It still searches for him in the dark.

Still softens at shadows

that feel like his shape.

Still startles

at the thought of his name.

It remembers the weight of his hand

on the small of my back.

The warmth of his chest

rising and falling beside me.

The intimacy

of him falling asleep on my belly—

as if I were home,

as if he’d earned that kind of peace.

The false safety I used to curl into—

not knowing it was a lie.

I hate it.

I hate that my skin still longs

for what my soul now recoils from.

That my breath catches

at ghosts I didn’t invite.

My body betrayed me.

It keeps reaching

for a man who betrayed me first.

It remembers

the touch,

the scent,

the whispered promises—

but not the poison laced within them.

There are nights

I feel him—

not in presence,

but in absence so loud it hums.

I whisper,

“He lied.

He lied.

He lied.”

But the ache stays.

This is the violence no one speaks of—

when the body wants

what the heart has exiled.

When healing means

overriding your own flesh

and reclaiming it as yours.

He is gone.

I welded the door shut.

But some nights,

my body still presses against it,

searching

for the echo

of what made me moan

and made me bleed