The Things I Ruined

I ruined cooking—
the sizzle of garlic in oil stabs like a memory.
You’d peek in, sweetly grinning,
telling me, “That smells awesome, Love.”
Now the kitchen echoes
with pots too quiet,
a silence that burns worse than the flame.

I ruined laundry—
each tumble of shirts a cruel cycle,
your scent once clinging like a vow
now clings like a ghost.
We dreamed aloud by the spin of the drum:
kids, gardens, a home with white sheets.
Now I fold futures that never came true.

I ruined long rides—
I never liked motorcycles, not really.
But you made them feel safe,
helmet to helmet, voices dancing
through crackling intercoms.
We spoke of everything—
from childhood scars to what dinner might be.
Your laugh made the engine feel softer somehow.
Now I won’t get back on.
It was never the road I loved—
only the way you made it feel like home
with me holding on
and you never letting go.

I ruined mornings—
slow, warm, and wordless.
We’d press snooze just to stay skin-close,
laugh at the mess of hair and dreams.
Now I rise like a stranger
in a house that once whispered
good things with the sun.

I ruined grocery runs—
our fingers brushing over veggies,
fighting playfully over what cereal to buy.
Now the aisles hum with absence,
each item a scar,
each list a ledger of loss.

I ruined movies—
the shared silence of story and screen,
your hand always finding mine mid-scene.
Now I turn them off before the credits,
afraid the soundtrack might remember us
better than I can.

I ruined sleeping in—
weekends once curled in comfort
now ache with time too empty to fill.
The bed, too big,
feels like punishment
for breaking the bond we shared.

I ruined “us”
in the slowest, cruelest ways—
not with a single shatter,
but with a thousand tiny cracks
I pretended not to cause.
Now everything ordinary
is a monument to what I broke.

So if I disappear
into smaller routines,
into quieter places,
it’s only because
I can’t bear the echo
of a life I ruined
with love
I couldn’t hold right.