The Velvet Thread Museum (No Refunds)

Have you ever thrown a party and invited all of your close friends\njust to listen to complaints about one person until the night’s end?\nEvery hour, a new paper cut that left behind a sting until you couldnn’t pretend—\na beautiful night that ended in a phone call and wounds that took years for me to mend.\n\nStanding in heels and a blue velvet dress, dressed to impress, but all I did was get depressed.\nWhispers overtaking the air near my head—I’m still not sure if it was chess or just a test.\nInstead of guessing, I chose to just stand there, pretending not to know what was said,\na gentle pull to the fabric causing me to notice the unraveling of a loose thread.\n\nIn full transparency, I still recall every word that fell off of your lips—\nhalf-truths masquerading as daggers. I still wonder if you knew you aimed at my heart.\nTwo of my friends stayed the entire weekend after you left, to make sure I didn’t fall apart—\nmemories I’ve stowed away. Easier to just leave them behind inside of a crypt.\n\nYou always knew how to make a mess just in time for you to walk away,\nleaving me behind to clean up the wreckage inside the chaos your indecision makes.\nThis far in, it’s safe to say that each of us made our own careless mistakes,\nbut this one right here—this was what made you, me—us break.\n\nYears of time stand between the versions of us here and the versions of us then.\nLooking back won’t take it away or make the memories themselves soften.\nSometimes they linger, scattering themselves around like vibrant spring pollen.\nI stare at the sky, and the sun stared back—I whisper my hopes as a bargain.\nMaybe one day, we’ll figure out how to bury the story inside of a memory garden.

There’s a girl still waiting at the bottom of the stairs — hand on the door, echoes of shouts chaotically descending.\nAnother shadow of a girl standing on the roof — smoke billowing from her mouth, mascara-laced tears still waiting to dry.\nA girl laughing too hard at jokes that weren’t funny — carefully sidestepping the trigger to the trap door below —\nalways wondering which step would cause her to finally fall to the entry-level floor.\n\nThere’s a shadow sitting on a poorly cushioned, velvet-blue booth seat in the corner —\nstrobe lights flashing, sweat-covered bodies, bass vibrating the vinyl on the floor.\nPhone in hand — thumbs typing a poem as I watch you move across the room,\nfeet flowing to the rhythm — watching as each step threatens to take you away,\npixie dust hidden in your pocket — and hope floating in the air just out of reach.\n\nThere’s a shadow beside your car in the garage — smoke dancing through the air —\na man holding her phone, speaking aloud the words selected in theatrical tones.\nLaughter bouncing off concrete — this only ever happened when we were alone;\ncareless thoughts whispered — a calculated shadow lingering in your eyes.\n\nI took snapshots in my mind — the only pieces of the history that still remain;\na passenger beside your seat — watching as you drum along with a hair band;\nremarks made in a secret tongue only the two of us could understand;\nfriction that started like two matches who finally struck the right part of the box —\nwhite sheets once sleek, now tangled and tossed — reflecting fragments of blinding lights.\n\nAnother five A.M. call that made its way through a deep sleep — I guess I forgot to leave you blocked.\nGetting in the car like a dog being called by its owner — where’s her leash?\nA walk through the Möbius staircase — carefully hiding her shame —\nsmoke wafting through the air — someone already halfway through smoking a chain.\n\nNew Year’s Eve at four a.m. — you pulled up unannounced, your phone in hand.\nThis was the first time out of about a dozen — a cycle I didn’t ask to participate in.\n“Hey, aren’t you going to let me in?” — I can hear the smugness sitting on the other end.\nFalling down my hallway — wearing vodka like it suddenly became your favorite cologne —\ndemanding forgiveness while at the same time demanding that I immediately atone —\ndriving you home while you sang along to songs — then going back to announcing that I was wrong.\n\nAnother knock on the door — another face — more filled space — three quickly became a crowd.\nAnother round of people that I’ll never manage to see again — destruction left in their wake —\nstories that stained the corners of the words we kept hidden inside of a picture frame.\nRemember when I told you we’re all just varying shades of moral gray?\n\nHalloween in the air again — ghosts that come back one month ouut of the year —\nechoes of a girl lost inside a wood-floored landing and a staircase shaped like a maze —\na shadow figure still lingering in the halls — careful not to make too much sound —\nthe girl who wore the mask that everyone requested that she portray —\nreminding me that time isn’t linear — it bends until the past won’t stay.

When you’d hold me when I was little, I’d squeeze the mole on your back\nI’d do this over and over until you got tired of it and placed me on the ground\nWithin a year, I chased you around the grocery store demanding to know how I was made\nI wouldn’t let it go even when you tried to distract me or create a sharp subject change\nBy the age of five I played flower shop owner with a bouquet picked from our neighbor’s yard\nA story you’d tell to anyone that would listen for decades and all I could do was smile\n\nI published my first poem shortly after hitting the beginning stages of double digits\nThose were the years of never-ending sunshine and getting lost in short-lived sun showers\nSharpie-covered jeans, black-stain song lyrics, riding through the streets in shopping carts\nA band of misfits that held hands through the darkest, starless, too-quiet nights\nThe first signs of a rift that neither of us could put words together to describe\n\nFrom family functions with bright eyes; sudden angry words leading to shouts and then to cries\nMoments locked behind walls that to this day probably still have some sort of hidden eyes\nInk-smeared pages carefully tied together then locked away inside of a box\nThe key forever lost—forgotten somewhere deep in unexplored thoughts\n\nParts of the story that I don’t know if I’ll ever choose to speak on or to share\nBleeding that left scars across my skin and deep inside of the memory bank in my brain\nA constant shade of grey that seems to stain the overworked edges of every single page\nNo amount of stuffing truth between words on pages seems to keep the trauma responses at bay\n\nHaunted by whispers of conversations we’ll never have and apologies that you’ll never speak\nHallways full of the ghosts of moments where I hid the feeling of shame or of defeat\nEchoes of footsteps from times I left unsure of whether it was final or just momentary retreat\nMovies unexpectedly playing of the years where I was still small enough to hide at your feet\n\nThe lingering ticking sound reminds me of the old grandfather clock in the hall\nIt chimed at midnight waking me up into a movie scene right before the character stalls\nTwo people equals three truths—hold enough space for the four walls to safely contain\nDon’t let the hair dye stain the caulk or the sealants used beside the bathtub drain\n\nThe first person to believe that I could be stronger than the statistical finish line of my lineage\nThe person that taught me that money can open doors but real power comes from knowledge\nCautious words spoken where I’d choose to casually nod my head—don’t worry, I agree\nThe only holder of my deepest secrets and unspoken fears; forever my silent trustee\nAn earlier goodbye than I had expected, but we both know there’s no such thing as guaranteed

When four a.m. came, I went outside and counted each star.\nI know we’d find the end of the road—I just didn’t know it was so far.\nThe night sky beyond the stars looked like a thick splotch of tar,\nA skyline road leading me back to the door where we stumbled upon the start.\n\nMemories feel less like the past, more like wounds trying to become scars.\nHow many chapters must be written before you can title it a memoir?\nThe truth is still running away, I keep chasing it because it never leaves my radar\nFlashback to the argument in a bar—it left me stuck in the passenger seat of your car.\n\nAbout a year before we met, I dreamed of being guarded by a jaguar.\nIt sat by my side—my only company beneath a skyline so dark.\nSomewhere along the path, I missed the ‘X’ that was meant to mark.\nHow many years did it take to learn your bite was worse than your bark?\n\nSitting in a parked car, staring at a four-story walk-up.\nWhen I finally knocked, you opened the door and said, “What’s up?”\nRed flags draped on stark white walls distracted me from\ncareless words tossed around about the Rugby World Cup.\n\nEnter Player Three—an unexpected meeting of two lifeless eyes.\n“Have we met before?” The question lingers in the air, then dies.\nCalculating my safety in a room with two strange men and I—\nthe girl you met online, hoping not to end up a news headline.\n\nTime quickly passed us by—soon enough, we found the end of the night,\nA black sky slowly turning to orange and purple, unseen from inside.\nYour “friend” stirring chaos, destruction I couldn’t quite decide,\nAlone in a room, I told you, these truths can’t really coincide:\nFriend or foe? Questions that still linger at the back of your mind.\n\nTracing our steps to the moment we both fell in the trap,\nThe truth cut through the air, more a hook than a jab.\nAngry at the attention he couldn’t claim or grab,\nYou turned into a mad scientist, made my soul into your lab.\n\nI can’t tell you every detail of that night, but I left it sad,\nSitting shotgun in a white Jetta, some creep reaching for my hand.\nI remember wondering if this had always been the plan—\nSometimes even the truth twists itself - too hard to understand.\n\nWeeks flew by—leaves now spinning wild in the sky,\nYour name flashing on my screen; I pause, scowl, and ask, “Why?”\nIt took months to realize you’d been wearing a disguise,\nNot knowing if this would enrich me—or lead to my demise.\n\nA year and a half, and most days, you really did try.\nThe moments when things went wrong, I could count on one hand, no lie.\nAn invisible thread between us, pinky to pinky, held our tie,\nBut still, we avoided the final page in the chapter: the final goodbye.\n\nWhen it was bad, it felt like waiting for my house to fly—\nA tornado spinning, cinematic scenes stuck in my mind’s eye.\nYou’d think, with time, the truth would be easier to find,\nBut no one can say I didn’t give it my all. I continued to try.\n\nTwo years have now passed me by - watching life pass like I was a wall fly\nI’m happier now that I ever was before - most nights ending without sad sighs\nNo longer searching for the answers inside of a trash bag full of half truths and lies\nand most of the time, I can say I’ve forgotten your voice or that look in your eyes\n\nWith scar tissues and a sprinkle of fading pain - I no longer wake up feeling disdain\nNo one calling a hundred times for attention - no more sick and twisted games\nYou may have stayed the same, but I chose to grow - I chose to continue to change\nThe way it all worked out is nice if not a little bit deranged - I always was kind of strange\n\nHaunted by cold nights in your garage - you reading my words while it rains\nor laughing for hours about secret moments - information we chose to exchange\nStepping off of your rollercoaster - I was left with motion sickness and feeling insane\nTwo truths, four white walls, and a lot of reasons for both of us to feel shame\nMost of the time I wish I could change my decision - I wish, that day, I never came

Answers found in silence— blank pages flying chaotically through the air\nA game of chess carefully played, both players following rules attempting to keep it fair\nCornering my queen with your knight— so close to a checkmate all I can do is stare\nCalculating my next move as if all of the options didn’t end in some sense of despair\n\nHolding in a deep breath— an ill-timed attempt to calm my nerves—\nSearching for answers on how to safely maneuver out of this square\nA carefully laid trap— one I helped construct, though I pretend it’s not there\nEach step a whisper, each glance a dare— until I withdraw my queen with a calculated swerve.\n\nHolding back the nervousness in my eyes and the shaking in my hands\nI search the board for missing answers—maybe this time, I’ll understand\nBut the only thing that stared back was confusion and a board that wouldn’t expand\nAnd I’m starting to wonder how much more my pieces can try to withstand\n\nSo I take a step back, not in retreat, but to sharpen my view once again\nA temporary pause to steady the ache still humming beneath my skin\nThis game was never meant to crown a victor or define who gets to win\nJust two hands hovering above the board, unsure of where to begin