I’ll Never Fucking Know

Sometimes grief doesn’t come from death — it comes from silence. From a friendship that once burned bright and then vanished without explanation. This poem spilled out of me in still trying to process the loss of someone who once felt like home. It’s messy, raw, and probably imperfect… but so was our bond.

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“I’ll Never Fucking Know”

What the fuck happened?

Seems I’ll never understand.

Like a whirlwind of emotions;

your sleight of hand.

Mutual love, compassion,

freedom of our fucking souls.

Someone to lean on in a storm—

bestie goals.

Is it really worth it,

to be so mad?

Is it really worth it,

to throw away what we had?

Your silence is deafening;

none of this makes sense.

We could’ve figured it out

with a bond that intense.

What could be, would be, should be,

before it’s too late.

This animosity wasn’t written

to be our fate.

But nothing’s changed;

what more can I do?

Just keep on keepin’ on,

without you.

I’ll stitch up my heart,

just like before.

Burn bright in your darkness—

I’ll always love you more.

What the fuck happened?

Where’s your vibrant fucking glow?

Your stubbornness knows no bounds.

Guess I’ll never fucking know.

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Losing someone you love — whether a friend, a partner, or a soulmate of any kind — can feel like a death without a funeral. Writing this helped me grieve, rage, and remember.

Fuck it — grief is messy, love is messy, friendship is messy. But maybe we don’t have to process it alone. Drop a thought, a rant, or a poem of your own in the comments. Let’s build a little corner of honesty together.

Rock on!

PS — What sparked this?

For a few years, my family was caught in chaos, and I was the one holding it all together. That kind of weight leaves you drained in ways you don’t even notice until later.

I think that’s why memories of this friend hit me so hard when they resurfaced – We once leaned on each other & lit each other up when we had nothing left.

I tried reaching out — not out of selfishness, but out of hope. Hope that maybe we could move forward, even just as friends. But silence was my answer.

So I’m left with this strange space: not fully grieving, not fully heartbroken, just carrying a fire I once borrowed from him. A fire I’ll keep tending, in the life I’ve built.