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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Having had writer's block (again) for months, I decided to get drunk at like 2pm (IT'S FIVE O'CLOCK SOMEWHERE LEAVE ME ALONE) and just start writing, so I did and this is the result

Submitted: July 04, 2016

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Submitted: July 04, 2016



I woke up tonight in a cold sweat from a dream about falling into an abyss of nothingness. If I were my mother, I'd say that the abyss is a metaphor for how I feel like I am going to amount to absolutely nothing. In a family of prodigies, I feel as though I have somethign to be embarrassed about. I am not a math genius like my brother or good at science like my sister, I am just alive and my mother looks t me like that offends her. 

Rolling over, I come across a body and I glance over, seeing a body sprawled out beside me. It isn't you and for the first time in six months I am glad for that. I can finally see in colour now that you are gone. More than anything I am grateful that this new chapter of my life is devoid of you. That you don't know anything about my new job or the new friends I have.

And I do have new friends.

I'm glad that my sheets no longer smell like you because I've washed them a half dozen times since you've been here. My life is brighter since you left and that might be because of the new lamps I've brought since you broke the old ones in fits of anger or it might be because of the new people I've met without you to taint them, or it might just be because I sleep with someone else in my bed.

My god, we dug so many graves for each other that we forgot which of our bodies we had buried in them. We fucked to the point of destruction, which is to say we fucke each other to the point of madness and back again. Insanity is something I am used to, the mental disorders I have could fill an entire page when coupled with the disapproving looks from my mother, but you made me feel inferior because of the struggles I faced. Being with you though was the biggest struggle I ever went through; bipolar and personality disorders aside.

We consumed each other. We moved through each other like fire, our bodies opened to the burn. Even with our dying breaths, you would say you wouldn't allow me to be happy if I were not drowning with you.

It took me an aggressively long time to realize that the relationship we had was not a good one. The necklace of bruises I had in the shape of your hands around my neck on a Friday night made me come to the conclusion that love was sometimes tough. That voice in my head saying this was yours though. And I am horrified that it took me so long to realize that.

But now I'm bridge-burning, taking my life back and wringing my hands over the flames. Me, standing in the middle of the street, self-destructing to the sounds of broken piano keys, louder than your yell of "but I do this because I love you!" and louder than my scream of "love isn't tearing someone apart to build them back up in the shape that you want!" 

You still, though, shine brighter to me than anyone else. Even after all these years. Like somehow, I'm never going to extinguish the fire. Like maybe it's on autopilot. I say to myself that I should've photographed you before you changed, frozen you the way that you were. So that I could remember that ocne I did love you and once you loved me back. But I remember that you didn't change, you were always that you way and the manipulation was so subtle that I didn't notice it at first. 

Staring down the barrel of the gun you held to my face and a blonde girl stares back at me, she doesn't look a single thing like me. If I didn't look anything like me, maybe you wouldn't be able to find me. I dye my hair pink, just to avoid being the bleached blonde. Just to avoid seeing you again.

I aam a fistful of "sorry's". A suitcase of excuses. A duffelbag of the mouths I was too terrified to let touch me after you left. I don't know how to tell them that touching them gives me panic attacks. That it isn't their fault, I've been touched before but after you, I feel like my skin will burn off. Layers of it, just gone in an instant. My big fear is that I will never be able to love someone the way I did you, even if it wasn't real. Which is a shame. Which is a waste. Because if there is a single thing I was good at, it was loving.

Having met him (in a bar on a Thursday, the year and a half anniversary of the day I met you) I find that my heart races so fast when we are together that I think an earthquake lives in my bloodstream. He looks at me and I feel myself unmake. He brushes my arm and I feel myself fall through the floor, like he has taken away the gravity and the only way to go is down. Kissing him is a moment where the universe stopped existing, an explosion that never stopped expanding. My hands shaking, his fingers steadying my own. 

It's like coming home again.

He is the silent in the rush of the wind. He is the meadow where the flowers grow taller and taller by the milli-second. 

Sometimes I find pieces of you still stuck under my fingernails. I gripepd the love we had so hard that I stopped feeling anything other than the burn of the stars on your face left by my hnads. But he takes my trembling fingers and tells me that sometimes he mistakes me for an earthquake deep within the soil. Tells me that I am a beautiful disaster but if I let him, I could become something beautiful without destroying anything. 

I am alive, which is to say, I am breathing. The life I had with you was full of dispair and doubt. Rolling over and seeing his body sprawled out beside me makes me remember that I am free, safe. There was nothing to be done for us. Everything was so heavy and there was nowhere to escape to. I made a drream out of you and now you're nothing but a bad memory. 

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