Most breakup poems begin in grief. Brie's "Over" begins with a taunt: "Guess what ?" It sounds like a text message or a phone call, the voice of someone who has rehearsed this moment and wants it to land. What follows is meant to be a victory lap, a list of things the speaker no longer feels. But the poem keeps slipping. By the final line, the speaker has admitted that the relationship was never really about love. It was about winning.
The form fits that bluntness. There is no rhyme and no regular meter, only the rhythm of speech: short, flat sentences that arrive like slammed doors. "I'm done ." "This is over ." The text as given puts a space before each full stop, so every statement seems to be set down deliberately, like a verdict. The phrase "I'm done" appears twice, and the second time, after the confession about not missing the other person, it is introduced with "But." That small word suggests the speaker is arguing against some doubt, perhaps the listener's, perhaps their own. People who are truly finished rarely need to say so twice.
The title does a lot of quiet work. "Over" first means *ended*: "This is over." Then it returns in a different sense in the longest line of the poem: "Going at each others throats over and over again just because we're both too stubborn." Here "over" means *repetition*, a loop. The line itself sprawls, with no pause and no line break, so the reader runs out of breath the way the couple must have. The image of throats is also startling. It turns an ordinary argument into something animal, two creatures locked together and unable to let go, and the stubbornness is what keeps them locked.
The most interesting moments are the ones where the speaker implicates themself. "Playing your games" blames the other person, but the next fragment, "And mostly letting you control me," turns the blame around. The word "letting" makes the speaker an active participant, and "mostly" is a careful, almost honest hedge. Then there is the oddly knotted line, "I just didn't want them to prove me right." Its grammar is tangled, and it is hard to say exactly who is proving what. But the knot is revealing. "Them" is the poem's only mention of anyone besides the speaker and the addressee, and it brings in an audience, people watching and perhaps predicting. The relationship, we begin to suspect, was partly a performance, with pride at stake in front of onlookers.
The ending confirms it. "Because I don't even like you or love you anymore. / I just needed to be right." The first sentence is a list of absences, but "anymore" quietly admits there was once something there, which sits awkwardly beside the earlier claim "I don't think I ever did." The speaker's certainty is not as smooth as it sounds. And the last line echoes the earlier "right" but strips away any excuse. The poem ends not on "done," the word of freedom, but on "right," the word of the trap. Even the closing sentence is about the need to win an argument. It is a sharp irony that the speaker's final act of leaving is also a way of being right.
The poem is worth reading because it is unflattering to its own speaker. It would have been easy to write a poem where the other person is simply the villain. Instead, the pattern of the lines (announcement, accusation, then confession) shows a person talking themselves toward something they would rather not admit. Its plain vocabulary and unpolished, conversational tone make that honesty feel real rather than crafted. The idea at its centre is one many readers will recognise: sometimes a relationship goes on long after the feeling has died, because neither person can bear to be the one who was wrong.