Posts tagged #Breakup

fracture (n).

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I am like the chipped glass
I keep in my cupboard;
a ragged piece is missing
off my shoulder and
a craggy trench runs
all down my centre. 

Do not bring your lips to me
do not expect me to hold
whatever you offer up. 

But do not, even in my awkward
state, give up on me - 
if we are careful, I could
maybe hold the flowers
we find on our walk home. 

manual (n).

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Regarding the care of an aching heart:

Be unrelentingly gentle with yourself.
Wade into sweet pools of grace abounding.
Be soft with the way you bandage
your wounds (include ample amounts
of breath and expanse).
Bellow all you need, even
in soggy, ragged sobs. 

Take harbour in the wonder
that you partook in the
sacred, delicate act of
loving another being.  

sequence (n).

In my mind I lined up all of my past loves
and the procession wrote a story on its own.

There was the dizzy of first love
and the caution of the last,
each countered and
contrasted the
man who came before them.  

There was the man who loved me deeply
and a man who couldn’t help himself
a man whose heart was locked away
and a man who shattered me with insults.
There was a man who woke early
and a man who wrote me letters
and all along
a man
who didn’t know
all of the ways
I loved him.

I think about the woman I have been
and the woman in each of their lenses.
I think about the woman I revealed to them,
in parts, shielding
what I thought they would think
is undesirable
(mostly, this heaviness).  
I think about the woman I contorted into,
the woman who
is fun to have at parties and
has many talents and
will think of gifts to bring your mother.

I think about the men who have loved
or not loved
or tried to love me.
I think
I am someone who knows how to love
but doesn’t know how
to let someone love me.

inconvenience (n).

Did it bother you,
the way I feel
heavy with sighs
and sorrows
and asking you to
look at your own?

Your own disgrace
your mother’s face
in your face
I could see it
in your eyes:
you wanted quiet
you wanted
me to unsee
what I saw:
which was
(naturally)
all of you,
heavy with sighs
and full of sorrow.
 

unscathed (adj).

I didn't know
that this was next:
you are fine
and I feel restless
and
I don't know
this girl, who stayed
this girl, who's left. 

You are fine
and I am this body
filled with rage
rolling in grief
soaked in regret
waking in sleep
quiet in comment. 

Did you not feel it
the weight of your words
hitting my face
quivering my lips
bruising my deepest
tallest bones?

And you're just fine. 

translate (v).

I interpreted your frustration to mean
I am someone who is difficult to love.
I interpreted your rage
as something I needed to wear.
I interpreted your silence to mean
there is no response to the oceans I feel.

In the end, it was as simple as this:
your language is not my language
your home is not my home. 

forced (v).

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I was always the loneliest immediately after leaving your house, walking down your street towards the baker and the sandwich shop with the terrible coffee. I got lonely because I knew that we were lonely, and I got the inkling that I was just filling the space, warming your bed, making your skin prickle and pink. I left lonely because I knew I do not hold majority of your thoughts; there was the wondering what else you'd like in a girl, probably, or even just consumed by all the things you are trying to become.

No room. You found  no room for me.

We stayed because we can pretend for a while that there’s nowhere else that we’d rather be, instead of the reality: there was nowhere else nicer right then where we could be. We would smile and make nice and say the right things that you say that feel warm when they roll out of your mouth and onto the other person's face. We didn't ask for anything, especially not what we needed.

Maybe we are most lonely when we are the least ourselves.

debris (n).

   

06b92988f4ff83e769be0042b779e61aI haven't said I was sorry: for all of the glasses I broke in the kitchen, the scratch in the hardwood floor from swinging the couch around to better see the TV; the watermark on the table from so many cups of tea when I would write by the window, the lotion smears on the un-lackered table by my side of the bed; how poorly I could tuck in those jersey sheets; how much space my hair products took up: in the shower, under the sink, in the second drawer of the vanity, in the shelf in the closet. I can't seem to go through the house without sparking something on fire, I know, the drips of coffee on the cushions of the couch, rogue blonde hair strewn on the ceramic tile, bobby pins left here and over there. I would have liked to leave behind a softness when you think of me and maybe a mark on your heart, but the scratch on your truck's bumper will have to do.

[true story].

[Psst this is my 600th post! Thanks for visiting xo].