“I’m coming home”
Tears draining bloodshot eyes
Plane tickets
And a pandemic
Picked up from the airport
And sleeping in the back seat
Long hugs
And “I’m glad you’re back”
Dad’s coffee
And your teenage bedroom
The North Sea
And 4pm sunsets
Clean breaks
With soft landings
Oh how sweet it is
To be caught.
Why is it always Mister Men and Little Miss?
Why little?
You
misled me, made me little miss
misery. I was
misguided and
mistook my
misfortune for good luck.
I was
miserable, under your tyranny of poorly disguised
misogyny.
I
misread the signs, and had the
misfortune to
misunderstand your indifference for love countless times.
And yet, your biggest
mistake, was to
misunderestimate
me?
Little Miss?
your heart
is a patch-work quilt
of the others you’ve stolen,
and mine
is a bucket with holes in.
do other girls think about it too?
this isn’t a game,
or a coming-of-age,
i think i’m in love with you.
it’s all consuming, this dizzying head rush
i think about most girls
and that i haven’t explored this world,
i just want to know how it feels, to feel your touch.
soft lips, freckles, soft skin,
twirling your fingers through your hair,
you act like you don’t care
that other people think it’s a sin.
i fantasize about you all the time,
and does it make it less true
that i haven’t yet kissed you,
would that make it less of a crime?
but we have kissed
a performative dance,
the lights dimmed, the room swayed, and i took my chance.
“it didn’t count, you were joking, you were pissed”.
and so it went on for years
a party trick, or a self-deprecating joke.
i’ll keep it a secret, all mirrors and smoke.
my heart already hers.
but from 13 i knew,
it wasn’t a strong jaw or strong arms
that could keep my heart,
but a colour the warmest of blues.
I think I’ve been too easy on you,
giving you credit where credit wasn’t due.
Saying you’re a good man deep down, and wishing you well,
but all of this niceness hurts me too.
Protecting your ego, your status, your pride,
even though the part of “you” that was “us” had died,
I still felt indebted to you, like I owed you something,
only to sacrifice my own peace of mind.
Our love was an empty house, and I was still haunting the halls,
singing your praises to the pictures on the walls,
thinking the problem, the hassle, the nuisance was me, when actually
forgiving you was my only downfall.
When you broke my heart I should’ve thanked you for it.
Instead I watched you watch in slow motion as it split,
with my head in my hands and tears streaked down my face.
I shouldn’t have stood for all your bullshit.
You had me on my knees,
and I was begging, pleading “please
don’t let this be the last of us, not here, not now”
but I am so grateful you didn’t agree.
So maybe I should thank you,
in the end, for what you put me through.
You raised all hell and pulled the earth out from under me.
But who knew a break up, could also be
a breakthrough?
That time when I failed an exam, by two marks.
No hug or celebrations or cards,
just the disappointed look on my father’s face.
The times I’d catch my boyfriend looking at other women that way,
I’d wonder, how can I make sure he doesn’t leave me? How can I make him stay?
Make myself thinner?
Okay.
That time when my mental health hit an all time low,
and I was broken up with on top of that, perfect timing,
just to soften the blow.
All the times I was left at empty tables in the school dining hall,
no amount of friends at 30 will ever fill that hole.
That time when there was a group chat, for everyone, except me.
That’s happened a fair few times actually.
The times (years) I spent suffering from OCD
1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3.
And wasting my parents’ time and energy.
Being ridiculed every morning for my crying, panic-driven, nightmares and screams,
the night before.
That time he cheated on me for six months,
yet told me he missed me
before calling it off.
To then parade her around in front of me like a trophy.
Every time I look in the mirror and think
“You used to be thinner, prettier. You’ve let yourself go,
and you can try but you’ll never look that good again though”.
Every morning when I wake up and recount,
all the ways I’ve let the people I love down.
My eyes burn from the tears I’m not crying
because I swore
I wouldn’t let what you did
hurt me anymore.
My hands are balled into fists
that won’t punch any walls.
The cracks in my heart not longer reflected
in brickwork
or frames of doors.
My mouth is pursed,
from words I’ll no longer let myself say.
I won’t pay any more lip service
to all the hell you raised.
But my heart remains open,
though still slightly bruised,
to accept the love from another,
and this time, it’s a love I choose.
I have been broken before.
Broken into so many pieces
I may as well have been
dust
on the floor.
Not the pretty “fill it with gold”
kind of broken either.
The ugly crying on the bathroom floor
in the cold,
kind of broken.
And not just once either. Numerous times.
Sometimes just a hairline fracture.
Sometimes nothing more than a bruised ego.
But sometimes, my heart completely ruptured.
And how do you recover?
Still put one foot in front of the other?
I have no answers,
But I know that I did it.
Some people might say,
my heart is still broken,
if I still write these words.
But I say,
the cracks left in my heart
were nothing short of a road map
that led me
to her.
What if one of us died,
And I never got the chance to tell you
I love you
Just one last time?
What if one of us died,
And the last thing we spoke about was
What we were having for dinner?
What if one of us died
And we never had the time
For one more hand hold?
Or one more hug?
What if one of us died
And I hadn’t told you how sorry I was
For every time I made you cry
And wasn’t there to hold you to make it all better?
What if one of us died,
And you didn’t know,
That sometimes you were my only reason for living?
What if one of us died,
Just peacefully in our sleep,
And the last thing the other would have to remember us by
Was the last good night text?
Well here’s my chance:
You’re it for me.
The end to all my endings,
My queen in shining vans.
I’m sorry for all the upset I’ve ever caused,
And I hope you can forgive me.
Because if we have forever together, I’m yours if you’ll have me?
What if one of us died tomorrow and our love story ended at 550 days?
Well it would never end there for me,
You are a piece of me now and I’d carry you, the way I’d hope you’d carry me,
Into our next little infinity.
You’ll teach me how to skip stones on the ocean,
And I’ll teach you how to dance on the sand.
You’ll teach my heart to thaw what was once frozen,
And I’ll show you how to say words with your hands.
I’ll teach you ukulele, sat cross-legged on my bed,
And you’ll teach me how to cook, the way your Ba does it.
You’ll teach me not to listen to the horrible thoughts in my head,
and I’ll teach you about the Himalayas and the height of each summit.
We’ll both teach each other, what it means to feel free,
From judgment, from doubt, from the stares of onlookers.
We’ll learn from each other’s bodies as we tangle the bedsheets,
and soon we won’t care about the words spoken by others.
You’ve taught me more in these 549 days
than I could’ve ever learnt from a textbook or teacher.
That’s what I mean, when I hold your hands and your gaze,
And tell you, your beauty to me is your least important feature.
stormsinteacups 