To The Man I Don’t Love, To The Boy I Loved

TO THE MAN I DON’T LOVE, TO THE BOY I LOVED

My body breaks in its heart’s turmoil. If I were a farmer with two fields, you have half a field of good harvest, half a field of agony and bitterness.  Lastly, an entire field of love I should no longer have.

I’m an unabridged form of a lengthy history book no one would flick two pages on the library bookshelf.

Where should I start this episode, the episode of traumatic souls traumatizing, spreading its infection? When melancholia was no longer casted away with the screaming nights? That day, when the meteor shooting marked, evidently, the finale of any feelings between us as you draped your arm around another girl and spat your best lies?

When I wasn’t enough for you to stay with me? Or when we headed to places we thought would bring us together, instead entangled us in thorny rose wires, and the only way to undo was to tear each other’s flesh until we bled afresh?

When you abandoned the so named sacrificial relationship we had; ignorant, hazy, and trivially shallow for us to even begin to decipher what went downhill?

I’ll start from here. I don’t love you anymore. And, I’m not sorry. I’ve stopped thinking about you.

You left before I could and I’m grateful how it was made easier for me to deal with for I wouldn’t be able to withstand the aftermath of my consequences, regretting that I should have held onto, no matter what. If you hadn’t, I’d always come back to you, right beneath your apartment window like I used to.

I won’t question you. I don’t want to hear these answers because I’m damn sure we both know too well. It’s only hard to confess. But, I dearly wished, you made effort to remain even when we needed to stay as far apart as possible; that you would understand me enough to hold my hand when I wanted to dissipate into the air for I could no longer breathe, when I wanted to rip my heart out and serve it up the table for I could no longer take the pain.

I craved for you to notice my shaking voice when I said it was okay to be at the party with your friends, your plastic friends. But, you didn’t.

All I needed was you to tell me it will be alright. My act was perfect; I was plastic enough to blend in. But, you didn’t.

I wasn’t too much of a woman for you. I was too much of a person, of a human; too sentimental, too sensitive, too profound that every time you wanted to touch the marine of my heart, you had to drown and suffocate in its raging berserk storms. You see, darling these storms that overwhelm my being arise for you to see that a crystal clear, glass sea on a fine morning can be rushed to havoc.

I loved you as you did – no, I don’t think it was even love. It was a sort of deluded transfixing spiral of contorting emotions that like oil paint take decades to dry up. A sort of mutation from regulation, a helical enzyme lost in function. Something broken, twisted – revolting, I gave you too much and I’ve decided I’m not going to apologize for being tough to love. Our relationship wasn’t ordinary, it was schizophrenic. I’m not sure which part of it had schizophrenic tendencies, whether it originated from me, the unstable maniac or you, the diverging anti-social trying to be communicative. One thing for sure I know, we both were mentally-ill. And, we needed reassurance.

I’m only but a cornered, quiet, Marlboro- reds- hooked, drunk in misery, forsaken woman you encounter at the back of an alley sitting on a thrown away cushion couch, pretending she’s a bitch to passersby while sniffing her tears down her clawed throat.

I gave you all the reassurance I gave myself, the bottle empty, you wanted to eat the metal.

Baby, the truth is I don’t love you anymore. Not your toxicity. Not your sympathy. Not your selfishness.  Not how you reshaped. Not the women you slept with. Not the clothes you wore after you got an increase. Not the fake submissiveness to your superiors. Not you. I loved; I desired that sweet boy, kind, attentive and full of warmth to give. He would put me to sleep, he would be the opposite of me, and he would tell me stories of warriors who fought saving lives and die heroic deaths. He would turn the monster inside me ashamed. You only told me about what I was, you told the monster, it was a monster. You told the little girl in pink, her skin will break and shatter crystallized like ice cubes and from it would emerge, from her skull, a monster, a demon bathed red. I desired the you before, you tasted the devil’s fruit, the gory blood splattering all around your feet and your new attained power to dominate the weak.

I thought you’d understand why I liked to dance in the rain even at times I couldn’t afford to get a fever. But, you didn’t.

I’ve been fantastic?  I’ve been shitty as hell. I ask people to come into me, wear my skin, fit my shoes and walk around in my body. I’ve got anxiety, heartache, asthma, hypersensitivity.  I hear voices; they come and tell me that I’m weak, pathetic, and frail. I’ll crumble like paper and meet a dog’s death, judgment would kill me alive and the devil agrees it is the worst death of all. I’m not afraid of death, I’ve thought many thoughts of killing myself but when I realized my zeal to live. It was captivating, to feel alive, it was extraordinary – all of a sudden delusions could turn into reality. I’m telling you all those things I wished for aren’t that far away.  All I want is to not have any regrets when I die. Speaking of it, death is commercial, an advertisement like I’m trying to sell my sadness; it’s only an accessory to pain. You don’t know what the corpse feels unless you become one.  Death does not define pain. You thought dying was an end. I laugh at that.

I roam around unknown streets to see if someone will love me.  Not you.  Not again.

That day when I left early from the restaurant, my eyes were wet when I came back from the washroom. I waited outside for you to come along. But, darling, you didn’t notice.

I got off the metro after we entered to see if you’d want me enough to stop and listen to what I had to say. But, you didn’t come after me.

All those things you didn’t do. I’d do them instead.  It was fine as long as you wanted to stay. I was wrong. These were the things that made me fall out of you. They made me grasp the reality inside my brain, the bizarre outcome, the obviously dubious denial. Why is it like this? Why does affinity deprive you of your ability to rationalize? Why was I willing to do anything, enough to neglect the fact that you never loved me?

Well, fuck you. I’m over that. I’m over how you made me feel. How you let my pregnable defenses wrap around your manipulative lies. How you made me feel like I was less of a woman.  See, now. I want to live so much and I’ve never wanted to be me than ever before. I want to fly to countries, take pictures, write poetry, study harder, and learn new things to unleash all that I was born to do.  I’ve forgotten, I barely remember your face not to mention your voice. To those girls with cheerful personalities you’re attending, tell them they’re gorgeous and treat them well. Trust me, they deserve better.

Someday, I’ll be open enough to fall again, to want to feel affection in a new day. By then, I’ll teach myself to live, to love me, to see and stop worrying. I’ll hold my own hands if I have to. I’ll do my best to be the surgeon I aspire to be. The changing seasons embrace me and pat my shoulder when I stop walking. Music keeps me going. The wind caresses my soul leading me to the pretty autumn leaves. They give me what you can’t.

The good memories I vaguely recall, I cherish. You came to me, changed me, made me stronger, and showed me to see the worse in every individual. To understand, stay silent and not to speak of anything. I’m grateful for that.

I may forget everything about you, though whenever I pass by the street we walked in, I’ll smile and wish you all the best. I can do that.  Just this I’ll always vividly remember, the bouquet of flowers you gave me, how I carefully watered it every day until they died two months proceeding.

These flowers they bloom like sprouting love, to die later with time, to fade away without heed. A replica of ourselves.

I know you don’t remember. It was when you were the boy I loved, when I wanted to kiss you for every minute in a day inside of my head.  I don’t love you anymore. I don’t have to say goodbye either, the universe has already bid farewell to us. So, thank you for letting me go. Thank you, for not coming after me. This, the cold truth I write, no sugar coating, no grievances, no affirmation, but what the heart tells and the monster cries for.

From the girl, you said was like grapevines creeping up a stairway to hell.

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