que te jodan, joaquín

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.

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 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.