writing is helping me heal. here goes.
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.
Your water is still by my bed,
your pajamas still under my pillow.
And that’s how I like it,
even though you’re gone for the moment, and it hurts,
I like the reminders you leave behind.
Which is why I am so sorry
to have ever put you through
the idea
of me not being here.
For the nights where I couldn’t see a way forward,
and I thought there was only one solution –
pills, a blade and a bath.
That was selfish of me.
Because although I still have your glass of water
and your pajamas,
and it pains me that you’re gone for now,
that’s just it – it’s just for now.
What would I have left you with?
A handful of badly written poems
some polaroids,
maybe that piece of paper with
“i love you”
scrawled on in lipstick from a drunken night out.
And that would’ve been it.
And I am so sorry that I was selfish to believe
that that would’ve been
enough for you.
But I promise you, I’m trying.
I’ll write you more poems.
I’ll be there with you under the covers,
and I won’t leave you
with a cold side of the bed.
I’m trying.
I’m lost at sea and don’t know where to find me.
Thought I’d moved on and left it all behind me.
But it creeps up on me in the night,
Not out of mind or out of sight.
It still hits me like a train and still blindsides me.
When do you know that part of you is dead and gone for good?
I’m stumbling, can’t find my feet, nor see the trees for wood.
Will it be hours or months or days?
I have no idea who gets to say.
But right now it feels like it’s still crawling, swimming through my blood.
And when will it stop?
How will I know?
When I thought I’d reached the top of everything that I had ever known.
When can I breathe?
Or let go and scream?
When will this feeling go?
And how will I know?
Sometimes I feel I’ve taken two steps forward and three back.
It’s hard to feel like I am safe when I’m running off the tracks.
What’s next for me – promethazine?
To quell the nausea slowly killing me.
So I’ll keep avoiding manhole covers and all the pavement cracks.
I’ve reached the point I no longer have the patience.
To be polite and maybe not just say this –
You fucked me up, yes you with the beard,
You led me on for all those years.
But is it me that’s left to blame for my complacence?
And when will it stop?
How will I know?
When I thought I’d reached the top of everything that I had ever known.
When can I breathe?
Or let go and scream?
When will this feeling go?
And how will I know?
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.
I’m sorry
I wasn’t there for you
I’m sorry
my absence
taught you that love is universally unreliable.
I’m sorry
I ridiculed you, publicly
for something that could
never have been your fault.
I’m sorry
I didn’t tell you about your Grandma
who could’ve given you some answers
before it was too late for you, too.
&
I’m sorry
for what I did
what you saw
I’m sorry
for what you cannot unsee.
I’m sorry
I treated your love as disposable
when it was actually irreplaceable.
I’m sorry
I took your kindness and forgiveness for granted.
&
I’m sorry
I let you believe I loved you
unconditionally
I’m sorry
I didn’t recognise
you were just my summer girl.
I’m sorry
I treated you like a getaway car
and only loved the good bits of you.
I’m sorry
I let you let your guard down again.
I’m sorry
I lied through my teeth when I said we had a future.
I’m sorry
I took the sweet ripe fruit of your heart
and pulverized it for all it was worth.
I’m sorry
I let you down.
Do you forgive me?
(No.)
I want to know
is it okay
to still feel this way
after all these years?
When I let go of your hand
at the terminal
oh I knew
that would be the last time
I ever saw you.
And it’s like part of me has died,
like you took the good parts of me with you
when you left
and left me with the messy bits,
the broken bits,
the parts-that-nobody-wants bits.
Oh it still hurts
because you cut me so deep
to parts of me I thought were healed
parts of me I thought were untouchable.
You promised me the world with one hand
and snatched the earth from under my feet
with the other
the very next morning.
And I’m not crying because you broke my heart,
I’ve cried myself dry over that.
I’m crying because
when I left you at the airport
I knew I was leaving part of me too.
I’m crying because
your actions and your words
shrunk me down to a half
no, a third
of who I used to be.
You walked all over me
and got away scott free.
So when I grieve now
It’s no longer for you
but for the old me
rest in peace.
I thought you were my full stop.
The ending.
To all my heartbreaks.
To all my upset.
To all my frogs not princes.
To my unhappiness.
It turns out I was just a comma to you,
a clause,
a throwaway line in your explanation,
of your mistakes.
maybe I’m not even that to you anymore.
maybe I’m actually (in brackets)
.
It’s the little things
like
the lipgloss you bought me
because you know I love sparkles
and how you say you still love me
when I’m at my darkest.
Like
it’s 3am and we find each others’ hands under the duvet
how you’ll kiss me in public
and we won’t care what who says.
Like
it’s the texts that say
“I want you forever”
not that I know what that means any more.
Trust me, I’m not that clever.
But if forever means
that you’re my last kiss
my last hand hold
my last wish
Then all these little things will have meant something deep
when for the last time
you’re the one who tucks me in
for one last sleep.
X
All the amazing things we did,
I look back on fondly
and I think,
“Weren’t we a great team?”
Doing all those things together.
The cycling, the hiking, the travelling.
I look back and think
“Didn’t we accomplish such great things?”
But we didn’t.
Give me a second whilst I ready myself,
because I’m about to finally be kind to myself…
But it was me.
Whose idea was it to go travelling to Nepal?
Mine.
Who suggested cycling to Brecon in a day, just on a whim?
Me.
Who challenged us both to climb Pen-y-fan ten times in 24 hours?
Me.
Towersey festival?
Me.
Who decided enough was enough at our old school, and we should jack it all in and go teach abroad?
Yep, me.
Who was it who got the job in Thailand first, and subsequently got you your job?
Need I say it again?
The job that you’re still profiting off, in a beautiful country that you never would’ve travelled to
if it wasn’t for me.
And yes, you did acknowledge it,
once,
a few months after our break up,
when I was back in the UK.
When you were high on acid, and floating in a villa pool in the middle of a rainstorm.
And you told me, and everyone you were with too,
that all the great things you’d done
were because of me.
I wonder, do you still feel grateful
for all those adventures I gave you?
Or does your gratitude only show when you’re having some sort of
hallucinogenic epiphany?
Either way,
it was all me.
Because I am capable of great things.
And you know it.
stormsinteacups 