It’s no secret
breakups are all the same:
there is the one who leaves—
before being left, and the one that never does
when they go, they take you with them
all that remains, are simply remains; the shell
call it an empty house if you want
the optimists would name it a "canvas"
too bad I am not one of those — in my reality, the snail has died
hovered in self-pity
and how stupid, after all, the up is down and the down is down under
it’s not that hard (that’s what she said “ahahaha”)
just fix the tilt before it gets fixed, if you know what I mean (smiley face)
So you are telling me he’s read all that and nothing changed
"How much longer are you going to keep fixing it, bro?" Just cut the goddamn cord!
It’s all me, I understand — I am deluded
however, I’ve always been slightly insecure; there is no need to scream about it
I told you off record, whoever’s keeping it — there must be a score!
anyway
What if the worst is true and it turns out that my soft soft sweet boy is a two-faced whore
things like that would drive me mad
actually wait! mad’s a big word — I am on the edge of a very tall building, looking down at them, ants aka giants in someone else’s poems, am I ready to jump? not now; not yet
we are still missing the plot of the story
all of this, just a dramatic pause — building up towards a taller tale
So, where was I?
at the what if my “oh, my soft soft boy is actually a coward” is that right?
would he sell me for a bag of gold
not even
a coin
or a moment of acknowledgement from someone of refined quality
not necessarily of substance
as long as it shines brighter in the spotlight
I am afraid I am always a shadow
a mirror if you want
yet never a diamond
I hope the grass was greener, my darling
I hope new york is waiting
I hope you’ll move into a bigger apartment, somewhere I didn’t swallow
words (what did you think? you pervs!)
what about my pride
what about my anger
not that it would have mattered, I am just saying — I hope you start clean
This city is forcing me out
Who am I to say something?
The last 3 letters of the spring
Just call it what you want.
-
-
This morning I reached for you all hazed
I bet it makes me sound pathetic
but, how would you know?
you see
I’ve been going through some “stuff” lately
by lately I mean, for over two years
that’s how you become a junkie I guess
I needed to face THE loss (repeat a lie long enough and it becomes the truth)
and now that I faced it — so close that if someone had asked me how your neck tasted I’d say: nivea body soap for men with a musky afterglow; I am
both the king and the knight running with the tail between my legs
drawing a seeker
forcing an endgame in someone else’s race
`since I am so good at beguiling
How come I never beat you at chess?
What is a coward when time means nothing
this morning I reached for you all dazed
sleeping in the middle of the bed pretending I like it
to tell you the truth (yk, because I am so good at deceiving and steering)
I’d rather build a fortress of cushions and pads between us
that’s how you become a junkie I guess
Recovering from this madness
longer than the actual crash
I can’t move when I am anxious, I need a minute!!!
shivering with some made up fever
waking up in terror in my queen-sized bed— leftover love for breakfast— his buried resentment wasting more moves, and the life I imagined
creeping up on me from the other side
you don’t fuck with the fear
the fraud’s having the jitters, don’t you see?
It’s all shaking
yet you can’t help it—it’s all invented 🙂
I was always afraid, at knifepoint I’ll be more in love
that motherfucker is still lingering like an obedient servant;
remembering -
I will eventually leave
I will pack my bags, yes, the plants too, all the russian dolls
and the hand written letters
nothing screams like heartache as ferocious as a birthday card:
the evidence of a life unknown—all I wanted was to be noticed
if you had failed to know me
you should have just said so
I would have packed my bags early
yes, the yellow flowers too
nothing screams like enmity as plainly as an empty vase
I now, darling, know, nothing screams like loss as lousy as a called off chase
an easy street paving the way for greatness, unless you are doing the tracing, then it’s all downhill from there
I will eventually leave
trust me, I will
Don't you think I won’t! I will gather all my strength and “try again”
like it never happened
and this is the first time I write something heartfelt and dramatic,
these being the first words:
all I wanted was to be the poem
…
at least once
even now
scrawling these lines
catching glimpses in windows with no one to bear witness
all I ever wanted was to be reached for
looking back at the time
when
you were mine
and I was typing some rhymes
unnamed, not yet read
in a language too foreign
too lonely
put down the 3 letter violence: ”shall we rename this as [MY]—poem?”
I will eventually stop
carrying all this baggage
no note to bear witness
“Will you take care of my plants while I am gone?” what a gratuitous service
It’s my poem! It always has been. -
The panic in your eyes when I took that first picture. You were sitting in your armchair in your living room, holding your phone, looking through me—you will never be more beautiful.
How much you loved lions of any kind, and when we went to the zoo just to see one. I remember I was scared of getting too close; you said as long as I was with you, I’d be fine. Right.
Your love for cats.
How much you are like your aunt—by the way, I don’t know how to break it to you, but I am pretty sure she’s gay. I am pretty sure we already discussed this. Then we probably laughed. Then we probably made love.
You cried when I cried—and considering I cried a lot, man, that must have sucked for you.
How you locked me in a small mental box and buried it somewhere far, far down; how from someone you loved I became a crazy stalker, a mentally deranged person. You went from kissing my shins to avoiding me on the streets; from stroking my hair to fucking coworkers; from like-liking me to discarding my things like they were of no use. I mean, what did you do with the love?
That last dinner we had—you didn’t wait for me to finish eating.
How you hated beets, my mispronounced words, or being seen. Sometimes I think that’s the reason.
The hesitation in your voice when I asked if you wanted me; the insecurity in your “yes”. Have you noticed the despair in my question? That I had to phrase it; that I had to voice it.
All this silence.
Your green sneakers—that you would have let me pass you by.
How much I reminded you of your mother; the way I made the bed, washed the dishes right after, and always needed to control everything—especially you. Isn’t that what you think?
How you’d rather never speak to me again than face the loss; than ask for help; than feel the weight of abandoning someone important.
All this silence.
You tried to break up with me at a lousy beer place, but I ordered only sides and somehow that changed your mind—for about a week.
How my longing feels like pressure, yet my distance feels like treason; that you will never forgive me for missing you or writing these poems (it’s all the same); how I will never forgive myself for staying so long. I should have left the first time my stomach dropped, but we both know I didn’t really mean it.
How you still look for your father’s approval: the car, the job, the apartment, the “I am proud of you, son”. But does he really know you?
How you kissed my shins; my arms; my face…
See…I noticed everything. That’s why you left, isn’t it?
-
“Things always get worse before they get better”
<<how worse?>>
you’ll drown yourself in work
imaginative work
and imaginative effort making someone richer
yet it’s never you
<<not you>>
“If you think something is off, then something is off"
<<always trust your gut!>>
I used to throw up in random bathrooms just because
I knew they wouldn't notice
Back then, things were strange as a factum: she didn’t have any friends, she’d talk to herself as her fans
How do you trust some insides after that?
<<It’s all twisted and there is blood everywhere>>
If he ran while I stayed, does that make me a loser?
A game I never planned to play, I’d win only in theory, ‘cause at the end of the day:
I stare at strangers and smell him in open-air cinemas
I could be blind and still see him, oh wait, I actually am!
<<never mind>>
“If it’s meant to be, it will be”
He marked the path with breadcrumbs before I crossed his way
Sure, but I am running in circles—that’s always a grave
Or has my witchcraft backfired?
Where was I and why didn’t I notice?
I should have known something was off
when I bit him and there was a blood bath—
biting is a love language only when full
<<what a fool!>>
He marked the path with breadcrumbs so I never get home
joke’s on me: I thought he was it. Where was I and why didn’t I notice? -
and it’s not that you left
and it’s not your stupid neighborhood I can’t avoid
and it's not your stupid apartment I can see from the sidewalk
and it's not our weekends in bed, which now I spend in the gym
and it’s not me hating this city
and hiding and hiding
blaming the heatwave
in truth I am just scared—it’s like missing a step, violently waking you up—or a lascivious sleep paralysis demon, lusting
and it’s not that you left
I promise it’s not
I’ve seen worse
I’ve lived worse
I am broken I am ugly I am lonely
I’ve heard this before
and it’s not your new car
I bet it makes you look cool; I can tell it’s working, in fact, I am proud, so proud (!)
I bet it felt good to see me seeing you: then conceding; then spiralling
all under 5 seconds
‘cause your win and my loss—it’s like falling inwards; getting smaller and smaller until you are a dot and then nothing—I used to be the whole world
I wanted a coffee
pointless to say I didn’t get anything
pointless to say I didn’t want to be there anymore
all under 5 seconds
Essentially meaning crazy—isn't that always the case
And it’s not the fact that I want to throw up every time I think I see you—what kind of ptsd is that?
Or crying in the stupid bathroom AGAIN
‘cause what…he’s moved on? he seemed fine?
life’s unfair? all I did was to notice
next time I won’t care I swear
and it’s not even all that
I promise it’s not
It’s all ranting just like he said
The blind treason—If I didn’t stop to fix my trousers—something as simple as that
I would have missed it
I would have gotten a coffee as planned
he wouldn't have seen my blue top, and my neck looking nice like that
he wouldn't have known I spiralled and cried in the bathroom
I wouldn't have known he got a new car
I honestly thought I’d have a decent day when I woke up—what kind of dark humor is that?
I bet he’d appreciate the flatness
It’s always the eyes; knocks me dead -
I was gone for too long
I forgot how to love this city
Its streets
I didn't realize I had been unhappy until late Sunday morning in your bed. You left me sleeping — on your way back you brought sweets.
I went very deep very down that rabbit hole
On the other side I met a gray-haired, sun-kissed
wise woman
She got everything I wanted
the golden boy and the white fence, no (!) make it an attic apartment
the yoga studio across the street and the neighbor with the crazy dolls watching
us
against the window
she cooked the parsley from your fridge and finished the ice-cream
I was “over” it for so long
I forgot how to love this misery
Its blonde hair
I didn’t realize I had been lonely until it was mid-December. I was rushing to meet you like I was a kid and there were presents to open on Christmas. The door ajar—I was there—bringing you cupcakes; being so glad… -
Scientists discovered
The deepest
oldest
largest
whale graveyard
Seven km beneath the surface of the Indian Ocean
forever and ever
getting even with nature
by
Doing the job of a mother
for a scared little boy
who hadn't been held when he was crying
in the end
we are all food for the same worm
It's only over when we stop trying
— to take care of the things that could last
a pay back in the shape of a gigantic swimming pool
flip-flopping redemption as a morality tool —
the leading cause of whale mortality is always the HUMAN
In this world, you gotta be a shark
yet I am a freaking Nemo
regardless
I'd never give up
The people
The places
The love
Breathing for him
Feeling his feelings for him
Doing the job of a mother
Holding the boy who never took care of the things that must last
Take everything from me
I have nothing left to give
What is another word for being called home?
Perhaps, it’s where the whales go to die
when they stop swimming -
…that’s the thing with the unrequited love
You can actually feel the power imbalance in your bones…They say rise above, be the bigger person, ok, done!
Will that bring them back? Will that explain the scrunchy and blonde hair I found in his apartment? Just know, there was a before, and this is the after. Am I going to eat at a normal speed like a normal person? What about my hair? What about those 5 months I don’t remember? What about all the men I am trying to forget? Self-harm disguised as sexual empowerment! What about all the regret? regret. regret. regret.
Let’s face it,
you don’t just get over it — not when you know that, in those moments when you were fighting for air in a loveless apartment, he was sleeping with some random marketing girl from work. It probably happened in his bed, probably on my side, and likely offered her a glass of water afterward. Just good manners, he’d say. right. I remember.
So much misery,
that flatmate of yours, she got annoyed that you asked her to turn the music down, on that day when he left, when all you needed was just a little bit of quiet. Everything was so loud, so loud...You couldn't eat for 3 weeks after that. Your sister said you weren't really there for like a year — the aftermath of losing someone dear. (That) your own goddamn sister wasn't able to console the inconsolable. Even your father heard about it. He doesn't ask too many questions, but that time he did.
And yes, ofc, technically, it wasn't cheating, but spiritually — spiritually it was death. Who cares about the soul when the law is on your side, right? Will that send me back to a time before the scrunchie? Will I trust again? All that love…wasted
only to fuck a marketing girl 🙂
Tell me again it was just a breakup
I dare you, tell me I should be fine by now. Tell me it was all in my head. Tell me it wasn't supposed to break me, not like this, maybe just a little bit, for like a weak, that sounds like a reasonable amount of time to get over something that wasn't that deep.
It wasn't supposed to last. It was something you aren’t supposed to talk about, like ever — something misunderstood (by me, ofc). I misread them, the signs, burning in the sun, looking like flowers in mid-August.
Tell me I am wrong
for taking too long to heal
for crying
for crying
for crying!
There is no point in waiting for an apology
because
well, for starters, it’s never gonna come
you are now the villain in their story, in fact, you’ve abandoned THEM, you controlling and manipulative witch!
It’s just a breakup.
Time will heal. What an asshole, they’d think, but never say. He’s never even met any of your friends(!) – I met his. It was almost like I was living his life. He didn't like sleeping in my bed; or taking the metro to work (my place was TOO far); or even going on walks; or watching something I liked, because all of my shows were STUPID (he still laughed at the jokes), and looked at me from above — a tall man he was, indeed. I was supposed to watch something more intellectual (more performative, perhaps) like all the shows he watched. He adored me for being myself, but in the end, that was exactly why he resented me. Like, why are you so honest with the world? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself like the rest of us? Be less, be less, be less!
Truly, it wasn’t even that deep
and yk, crazy chicks swallow
so that’s that
breadcrumbs, cum, and all that anger — because: different expectations, he said; he's not ready, he said; he wants to fuck around, he said; new york, he said; it didn’t work out, he said; I am another crazy ex, he said, hence the mirage.
that’s the thing with the unrequited love
you can actually love someone forever when they don’t love you back
airing dirty laundry on the internet, as if I wasn't a clean freak
perhaps that's the point — I need a cleanse, yet all I have left are words and moral injury. -
When they leave, what happens to you?
Do you go too?
do you move apartments
cut your hair in an ugly bob
do you switch countries
try another yoga studio, or two, or three (anything just to keep him comfortable)
get a new job
go on endless dates with random people from the internet
pretend they are fun
pretend you are fun
and keep scrolling
keep scrolling
Do you start writing?
poems, novels - do you start journaling?
Would you ever read all that? Probably not! I am making myself cry, he said. Sometimes I do. He is right again. What happens to the poems? Do you start a blog? Do you start getting likes; is someone even reading that shit? Does he know I started a blog? Does he occasionally visit it? On Tuesdays, in that little free slot he has between work and his basketball game (to be loved is to be known). Around six pm. Is he flattered; does he think I'm crazy? Is he aware I know? Does he want me to know? Does he think I am pathetic and lame? Is it all in my head? Did I make him up? Did I make it up?
All of it.
That we met in my favourite spot, on a random day in June; that I was 15 minutes early and he was 15 minutes late. Very foreshadowing! That one night I was sad and texted him that I was glad that I had met him; that he waited a second to reply and said that he was also very glad. Which turned out to be crucial for the story. Is it just a story? Would it still be important down the road? Then, another night, years later, I was sad again, and I texted him asking whether it was him. He waited half an hour to reply with a soulless “Huh?” That I had to apologise for disturbing his “peace” and not making sense (to be loved is to be known); that I was very conscious of what the distance has done to us; that I said I was sorry for invading his whatsapp privacy when really I meant I was sorry for everything. Did he catch that? << or >> Was he glorifying the moment of my defeat? ‘cause I was defeated, drowning in my own tears, to which he’d say, it’s not that deep.
I was sad a lot, and every time I’d reach for the phone to text him, I’d write long rambling sentences about all the things I should have said, but only phrased in the shower or at yoga, never in the moment. Was he sad a lot too? << or >> Was that him not giving up the joy? The joy of singlehood. Funny, 'cause when I asked how he felt about me, he said, “Don’t you know? We spend our weekends together” - and those Wednesdays when we’d f*ck during our lunch break. Now it just feels like a warning sign I missed on purpose - at some point, he would want his weekends back, whole weeks.
I was so afraid of finding out that he had moved on that I actually vanished - or was I driven away? Hence, in some universe we are still friends, but in all honesty, what kind of friendship is that if you’re still sad? Ever since then, he’s been avoiding me like the plague. As if he knew. He must have (we are only as blind as we want to be). How else would you explain that he took his weekends back? The Wednesdays too.
When they leave, you stay and grow out your hair.
The last 3 letters of the spring 