The Aftertaste - by David Lilly-West

It always starts the same way—that slow, nauseating twist in my gut,like my body knows before my mind catches up.You smile at me,and for a second it feels almost real,but there’s something in your eyes,a distance, a flicker—the beginning of the end dressed as warmth. I’ve lived through this enough timesto recognize the taste of dying trust.It’s metallic, like blood in the mouth.It coats everything,the way fear does when you’ve been burned too many timesto believe that touch can be safe. You’ll say you’re tired.You’ll work late.You’ll sleep facing the wall.And I’ll feel it,the slow shift of gravityas you start orbiting someone else.The scent on your clothes will change.Your laughter will find a new audience.And I’ll pretend not to notice,because admitting itwould make it real. Do you know what it’s liketo live in the ghost of a love?To kiss someoneand feel like you’re trespassingin your own life?Every touch feels borrowed.Every word feels rehearsed.And the silence—God, the silence—it’s louder than any confession. I scroll through our old photosand they feel like evidence.I zoom in on the details—the way you looked at me once,the way I used to look back,so sure, so blind.I wish I could reach through the screenand warn myself,grab that naive version of me by the shouldersand whisper:Don’t fall so hard. Don’t trust so deep.You know how this ends. But even if I could,I think she’d still choose you.Because that’s what I do.I hand people my heartlike a weapon they never asked for,and then I’m surprisedwhen they pull the trigger. The night you finally tell me,I don’t even cry right away.It’s a quiet kind of collapse,a folding-in on myself,like my soul just shrugs and says,Of course. Of course it’s happening again.The words come out of your mouthso calmly,so goddamn gentle,like mercy,like you’re setting down a burdenI’ve been carrying for you. I nod.I even say “It’s okay,”because I’ve forgottenwhat else to say when my heart breaks.And the worst part?You look relieved.Like I made it easy for you.Like my pain is something you can leave behind. After you go,the house becomes a graveyard.Every room is a memory decomposing in the dark.Your toothbrush,your coffee cup,your half-empty drawer—it all sits there,mocking me with how alive it still feels.I can’t throw any of it away.Not yet.Because once it’s gone,so is the last illusionthat I was ever enough. Nights stretch like open wounds.I sleep with the TV onso I don’t have to hear my thoughts whisper,You should’ve seen it coming.I count the ceiling cracks,trace them like fault lines,and wonder how many times a heart can breakbefore it stops trying to heal. Morning doesn’t bring relief—only reminders.Your name in my phone,your ghost in my chest,your echo in every love song I can’t turn off fast enough.I catch myself checking your socials,looking for proof that you’ve moved on,and when I find it—when I see you smiling with her—it’s not shock I feel.It’s familiarity.Like touching a scarand remembering the knife. I wish I could hate you,but I don’t.I hate me—for being so desperate to be lovedthat I keep mistaking pain for passion,silence for safety,and temporary for forever. And maybe the cruelest part of it allis knowing I’ll heal just enoughto do it again someday.I’ll find another face,another voice that sounds like home,and I’ll hand them my heart,still trembling, still cracked,still stupid enough to hopethat maybe this timeit won’t be brokenin quite the same way. But it will.It always will. And I’ll keep bleeding quietly,telling everyone I’m fine,because no one wants to hearhow love has becomethe most beautiful wayto die slowly.

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