Writing is supposed to help you ease the pain, but if you can't survive it,then how can you ever decide to write? I get to my laptop, and even though I have a storm of words tangled together into nasty grey-blue clouds inside my head, and a million more right at the tip of my tongue, I still don't know what I really want to say. I loved him and sometimes he lied he loved me too. Perhaps that's the saddest lines I have ever written.Every morning I would take a deep breath and flowers would grow in my lungs. I would eventually blossom with happiness out of his thought; yet each and every night I was just another flower for him to be picked by its beauty. He would adore me for a while and then when the fragrance starts to fade away, when decay was spread over my petals he would look at me with eyes small trying to remember why he even picked me up. Trying to remember the beauty I had before he cut me and destroy it.
But I would still blossom the other day for him. Out of my ashes I would recollect all the pieces to make me a whole so I could be uprooted all over again by the hand I so dearly adored. I was giving my fragrance to the hand that was crushing me and I was restlessly waiting for him. No, I wasn't waiting for him to change. I was waiting for him to leave me.Why to ? Because I know he hated the fact that I needed him. He would fancy other arms, less tender than mine, because they were independent; because they would never need him as much as I did.
My biggest mistake was to consider a human, a skeleton surrounded with a veiny flesh, as a home. All of my property, my territory was underneath his clothes and when he decided to leave me I had lost my sense of belonging.I felt like a ghost with no place to hunt anymore. And even though I couldn't feel pain anymore, no one could kiss me either.
I am not proud to say that, In fact it's the ugliest thing I have ever admitted to myself and now to public. I always wanted to be strong and independent. I wanted to be free of any kind of addiction and here I am now denying the rehub session. I was supposed to be angry with him. I was supposed to leave him first for he never cared and he never will. In his eyes my reflection was endlessly melting.He knew they were my weakness; he knew I wanted to be consumed in love, he knew that I was in love with the idea of love more than I was with him. And he used it against me with my very own consent. Strang oaths we echanged one night. Oaths doomed to be broken.
Now I am trying to reborn like I did so many times before. Though in vain. Every morning I have the unpleasant taste of ashes in my mouth and my body is weaker than ever. I am a dry land where nothing is inclined to grow. I am not a flower anymore, I am the dirt. I am the desert. I am this rocky edge on the groundnd that bleed one's feet in he steps on.I am not a song but a terribly groan.I am not a home.I am a broken window in February. I can't find shelter in music anymore. Songs are reserved for the happy. I am consumed into poetry, the most destructive one.
I don't know if I regret having met him. If there was a chance to turn back time, as hard as it might be I would have avoided meeting his eyes,perhaps. I would have chosen to walk another route or go to a different place for coffee. Or maybe I wouldn't. If I could have back those seconds of adorement in his eyes when he first saw me, then I would have done it all again. I was more alive the nights he was plunging the knife into my chest.
Now I am left with nothing. I mean almost nothing cause there is always myself. But that's not a really good company. Who would like to be twenty for hours a day with a hopeless romantic ? When the things seems to go well in life, when happiness seems to be at the threshold, they have the ultimate conviction that it won't last. They are sad and shattered and severely broken like anything beautiful in this world. This person in my head seems to love the pain and embrace it, because happiness is scarier. Once it is given to you, you leave in the fear that it might be taken. Thieves are everywhere. You weren't a thief but it was easy, almost natural to leave with something that wasn't yours.
I don't like these lines I am writing. It's perhaps the worst text I have ever ever written. There;s nothing poetic about it. The old poet was right. The blood before we transfer it into words was just red; had nothing beautiful about it. The only reason why I am doing this, is because I need to get it out of my chest.;even stones would be lighter if they could talk. I need to master the art of losing so I can get rid of this burl in my throat, of the humidity in the corners of my eyes, of this heavy burdain on my shoulders. I will practise in losing something everyday. From my keys, as unpleasant as it is yet so harmless, and the remote to my aspirations and future travels. Then I will proceed to learning how to lose my mind, and you.
Maybe in an inverted universe where the heavens are shallow and the sea forever deeper. Where the moon casts its own light and the sun is silent. Where the shadow is the real body and you love me. Maybe in this time I won't need this skill of losing. But at least for now I must. I must so as to go forward. The art of losing isn't hard to master and almost always always ( I hate it but write it! ) leads to a disaster.