Heartbreak Is Not Poetry

Heartbreak is nothing short of excruciating. It's not a beautiful mosaic yet to be assembled, it's not a breath-taking poem waiting to be written... it's a shredded soul, bleeding broken tear stained glass on the floor of everything that is your existence.

It's forgetting about the pain for weeks and suddenly being stopped dead in your tracks, forced to catch your breath and do all you can to not fall to pieces in the middle of a crowded room, or empty hallway. It's seeing a reminder of them in every person crossing your path, while you fight the urge to run away.

Waking up screaming because in your dreams they're still there, but they leave all the same. you feel the touch of their lips on yours, their breath in the nape of your neck while you stand there helpless and alone, choking on the memory of their presence. It cripples you. Your chest aches and it throbs like a freshly exposed nerve, and breathing feels like sucking air through a straw from metres under the water.

Stop telling me pain is beautiful. Stop telling me pain is poetry.

Stop using people like they're easily replaceable. Don't treat them like your old notebook, the one that held all your hopes and dreams, pain and despair, but it got to old, too broken, too tacky. It's time to be thrown away. A heart is not a book, you can't give it your all and then dump it and discard it when you've taken all you want.

Heartbreak isn't beautiful. Heartbreak is walking in a haze. Meandering through the days without feeling, out of fear of breaking down and never getting to the healing. It's spending every waking moment waiting. Waiting to catch your breath, to not see the world through a layer of fog, to hear your name and not see her face. It's waiting around wishing someone could take the destruction that is your soul and put it back together, all the while knowing it's so very sowly reaching the end of it's tether. Nobody can put it back.

Walking and waiting. Walking and wishing.

Heartbreak is not beautiful. Heartbreak is not poetry. Heartbreak is something I wouldn't wish on my worst of enemies.

Broken Moments

You’ll wake up one day wishing you’d asked her to stay. Would she have? Probably not. Would there have been contemplation? Possibly. You never asked though, did you? 

So you drink and you smoke and you cry and you choke, forget what the world felt like before the hitch in your throat. It makes it very near impossible to merely think, let alone utter words stringed together in an almost coherent way. The stars in your eyes fade to black. The ending credits, to a movie you never wanted to see. 

Before, you would go through the days without skipping a beat, but it’s hard to stand tall without feeling your feet. Every step, every move, every touch, every glance, is a perpetual reminder that you are alone shivering and shaking on that cold bathroom floor. Pulling out shards of broken glass that are your scars, and the pain bleeds darkest crimson from the depths of your soul. 

Alone.

Your focus is on breathing. Through the hurt. Through the pain. Through the days, they’re all the same. Through the better. Through the worst. Through your memory now cursed.

Is she seeing things the same, or are you furthest from her mind? The wondering, wishing, wanting, waiting plagues every second of every moment of every day. 

You think and you sleep and you drink and you weep, you spend hours holding onto the things you can keep. It comes in waves and all but takes your breath clean away, leaving you broken and bare in the midst of your own sadness. You’re unable to fathom a path through the dark. The ending credits, to a movie you never wanted to see.

You know things will get better, at least that’s what they say, in those heart wrenching moments when there’s no other way. Every second, every minute, every hour, all the time, is a constant waiting game for things to move forward, for you to be able to pick yourself off the canvas that is your broken hopes and dreams, lying naked and afraid. Yourself. Afraid. Alone.