When he says
He doesn’t love you anymore,
Roll your shoulders back
And look him in the eye
Even when it feels like your ribs
Are breaking inward, like spider legs.
When he digs up old aches
That he swore he forgave you for,
And ask him why he didn’t leave you sooner.
Ignore the way the words feel like sandpaper
Running all the way up your throat to your mouth.
When he blames you
For mistakes that wear his face,
Do not scream.
Do not cry.
Tell him that there are boys
Who would be proud to say they’d loved you.
Tell him that in two years
You won’t even remember his name
And don’t let him see the way you can taste your own lie.
When he leaves
Ignore the howling in your blood
And do not get up after him.
Not even to lock the door.
Do not, do not
Smell his shirts when you box them up
To give them back.
Swear off dating when you realize
You’re chasing ghosts that wear his smile.
It’s okay to cry over him.
It’s even okay to forgive him.
But do not go back to him.
If he did not know how to love you the first time,
He won’t know how to do it the next.
When I first found about her, I was numb for four days. I didn’t cry. I didn’t eat either. I bathe myself every morning and evening with hot boiling water and I listened to your favourite songs. I left everything untouched. Your name was still “baby” on my phone, your missed calls left uncleared, you and your lover’s picture as my wallpaper. I needed to feel something rather than feeling this hard pressure against my chest. Who knew a broken heart could do more good than anaesthesia? I stopped writing because I knew it would hurt. But here I am, almost midnight and guided by rusty voices I hear in my sleep as they whisper your name and reassure them I was good for you. Are you really good for me? Or am I just seeing signs that the universe can’t give. I always had this principle ever since people had started to notice my writing and the messages I get were so unbelievable I had to save them, that feeling is not necessarily a bad thing because it means you can actually feel - you’re still alive. I tell that to everyone, I tell that to the boy who told me I was beautiful when my mascara was all over my face from the tears. It still hurt though. I was more experienced than I was a few years back and I thought I was ready. God, does it hurt like a motherfucker when the truth comes crashing into you like fifteen bullets on every column of the spinal cord. She had you first.
I need a make out session so intense that I forget all my problems and possibly my name.