que te jodan, joaquín

intro note: you watched me vomit my guts out of grief, watched me be unable to move from my spot on the floor for weeks, unable to eat, unable to sleep and you still told me i was faking it out of narcissism and everyone hates me but you. you’re so much older than me, i thought you were my friend. how could you do that to me?

I thought you were a friend,
a name I let inside my door,
but grief had hollowed out the frame
I used to be before.

I was still half dead with loss,
still learning how to breathe,
and you walked in like you belonged
to everything beneath.

You said you’d help me hold the weight
I couldn’t even name,
then took the quiet parts of me
and left me with the shame.

You slept inside my bed
while I curled up on the floor,
as if my broken body
was a thing to just ignore.

You ate the food that I had saved,
you smoked until you slept,
while I counted every second
that the silence hadn’t kept.

You called it care,
you called it grace,
you called it being kind,
but kindness doesn’t leave a person
further left behind.

You told me I was nothing,
that my grief was just a show,
that tears I cried for death itself
were staged for you to know.

You said I didn’t love them right,
that I was made of lies,
while I was drowning in the fact
that someone doesn’t rise.

I sat beside your breaking nights,
I listened while you cried,
I never told you tears were false
or something you contrived.

But when it came to grieving mine,
you stripped my sorrow bare,
called every shattered breath I took
another act to wear.

You watched me lose
what little strength
my grieving body knew,
watched sickness tear itself from me
because the pain was true.

I folded to the bathroom floor,
while everything gave way,
and still you said my suffering
was something I could play.

You said my friends were sick of me,
that no one else remained,
that you alone could stand my heart,
the rest had all been drained.

You took the people that I loved
before they even left,
and filled the empty rooms with lies
until I feared the rest.

You yelled until my bones went small,
until my voice went thin,
until I didn’t recognize
the room I was living in.

You called me narcissistic
when I couldn’t even stand,
a body barely tethered
to the shaking of my hand.

You said I faked my sorrow,
said my tears were never real,
while I was breaking in the dark
from everything I feel.

And when I tried
to find the thread
of what you thought was true,
you turned my questions into wounds
I wasn’t meant to move.

You made confusion feel like fault,
like I was meant to know,
as if my grief was something
I could switch off or let go.

But I was already gone inside,
already split in two,
one half still mourning what I lost,
the other crushed by you.

You said it was my fault they died,
like I had signed their end,
like grief was something I had caused,
not something I defend.

You sharpened every silence
into evidence of crime,
and made my mourning feel like guilt
I carried all the time.

You stood inside my broken home
and named me as the cause,
while I was barely holding on,
suspended in the loss.

And I was too destroyed
to even argue or resist,
you turned my devastation
into something I’d done, not missed.

There were nights
you crossed the line
where words were not enough,
where anger turned to contact,
sharp and careless, rough.

You tackled me into the ground
like I was yours to break,
and all the trust I had in you
was something you could take.

You left me marked
in places I kept hidden
from the light,
proof written on my skin
that something here was not right.

I learned to pull my sleeves down low,
to move like I was small,
to flinch at every sound
that echoed through the hall.

And still you called it nothing,
said I made it up inside,
while I was carrying the evidence
I couldn’t even hide.

You called it helping,
staying close,
like you were there for me,
while taking what I had left
of my already empty peace.

You made my home
a place where I
could barely stay alive,
and still expected gratitude
for letting me survive.

I thought I was already buried
under everything I’d lost,
but you made grief feel lighter
than the way you overcrossed.

And I don’t know
what was more cruel,
the absence or the stay,
the way you came
to hold me up,
then took my breath away.