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Harsh Mar 2019
Over the past months there have been
so many times where I feel like nothing
more than a remnant, an empty ghost
with no spirit trapped inside the shroud.
So much has been seized from me-
when we walked our separate ways
you took back everything you brought.
Anything that once carried your touch
now feels tainted, a painful reminder
of something that once was and never
will be again. I can’t go to certain cities,
or listen to particular songs, because
the memory I have associated with it
is far too lovely for me to bear right now,
as is any positive thought I have of you.
I can’t even have things that were once
mine that I shared with you. I told you:
everything I have, and everything I am,
is yours. And truly, it is. I am bereft
of all I once had, wandering the halls
of my memories, a beggar, a supplicant.
Harsh Sep 2018
"I found so many words
after you left

had we stayed together
we may have become silence"

And some days I wonder if
that silence is something that
I would've looked forward to; things
get awfully loud in the world outside
and I think it might have been comforting
to come home from the cacophony
to a deep, warm silence.

But other days, I'm reminded
of how scared I am of silence.
I think of all of my worst fears and
insecurities reverberating within my skull,
growing louder with every bounce-
no one else can hear it though.
This kind of silence is invisible,
stifling, and self-imposed.

This kind of silence yearns for
affirmations and terms of endearment
that aren't here anymore; they've
grown stale in the quiet between us.

And I think that some day,
I might just want to come home
to something loud;

to someone who will proclaim love
from the tops of mountains, and have
the strength of their words drown out
the self-doubt whispering inside my mind.

Maybe silence isn't what I wanted-

maybe I'm glad you left.
the first four lines I saw on Instagram (user @mazadohta) and thought of the rest of this piece in response.
Harsh Sep 2018
I write this not from a lofty place of judgement or from frantic paranoia, but instead I would much rather you learn from any and all of my mistakes before subjecting yourself to future pain.

First and most importantly: you are lovable, you are loved, and you are truly worthy of love and appreciation. This is a resolute fact, an immutable truth that you have absolutely no chance of changing. Remember this in your darkest moments- just because you may feel “less than” your normal self does not mean that you have lost your self worth. If you learn anything from me, please let this one thing be it.

Second, and more lengthy: as well-adjusted as I may come off, know that I have these horrid insecurities and vices about me that I have the hardest time shaking off, even on my best days. I have spent most of my life wondering if I would ever find love, because people keep telling me that you need to first love yourself in order to love someone else; there have been days where I truly don’t love myself. However, I think there’s something to be said about feeling love for someone else amidst all of this wretchedness- I give my love unabashedly, with an earnest conviction that I think comes from knowing what feeling lonely truly means, and never wishing that feeling upon someone else.

Love is something I have fallen into and am currently falling out of, it is something that has kept me up for hours at night but kept me in bed long after the sun has risen; it has brought me to my knees and it once had lifted me up. Love has grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, looked me dead in the eyes, and asked me if I was worth anything- knowing that I would never answer affirmatively. Love has made me sing and scream the loudest my lungs could possibly take, and it has rendered me silent for days at a time. It has fogged my vision and my mind and left me bereft of any sense of clarity. I have lived my longest seconds and my shortest days when in love.

Loving someone can truly be terrifying- you will never be quite so unmade and disassembled as you are when in love. You will have handed someone the pieces of yourself and know that they could very easily unravel the threads of your being you have so tediously strung together; take comfort in the fact that they could very well hold your pieces together when you feel strung out.

Signed without wax,
Someone Whose Heart
Is Learning To Hope Again

P.S. I urge you to be careful, and to be safe. There is not a world in which you can have done something and I will not be there to support you unconditionally. I will be here in your corner, ready to listen to your story, ready to congratulate or to console, ready to remind you of your worth.
Harsh Aug 2018
I hope you find someone that takes their phone off silent
in the hopes of hearing your calls. I hope they laugh
at all your jokes and can take a couple, as well. I hope they
remind you to eat on your busiest days, and help you
get out of bed on days you feel like you can’t. I hope they listen
to the same music you do and dance with the same fervor you do.
I hope they look for you in a crowded room, at the bottom of a bottle,
at the tops of mountains and in the deepest crevices of their heart.
I hope they kiss you for every second you’ve ever spent doubting
yourself. I hope they memorize your favorite colors and fruits, I hope
they call your mom to check in on her, I hope they get along with
your sisters. I hope they cheer the hardest for your achievements,
and weep the most alongside your sorrows. I hope they remind you
that you are loved, you are lovable, and you deserve to feel loved and
appreciated by those you surround yourself with. I hope they listen to
every story you have to tell, and help you write so many more. I hope
they love your laugh, and revel in how heartfelt and unfiltered it is.
Harsh Aug 2018
As insistent as I am about
not apologizing for your feelings
(you should never feel guilty over
things you experience and can’t
control-your experience and emotions
are human and not something you
ought to say sorry for), I’m still learning
how to stop apologizing. I’ve said sorry
for all of my vices, the ones that you
point out and the ones I come up with
all on my own. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I-

I kept telling you that I’m sorry
because it felt selfish to ask you to stay.
Harsh Aug 2018
I wrote a poem titled “Autobiography” about
four years ago- I wrote about how I was born
prematurely, about how I worried which aspects
of my parents I’d inherited. I wrote about how
I dressed, my favorite colors, and my irrational fears.
Other parts addressed some insecurities, my
introversion, and my girlfriend (at the time).
All of these things still hold truth to my character,
they will forever be engrained in the fiber of my being.
But I feel like that autobiography needs to be updated.
That worked for me four years ago, but I was much,
much younger then. I was young and hopeful, you
could even say naive. I knew nothing of the pain
that I would one day harbor in my heart, I knew
nothing of the anger I was to be consumed with.
There’s a part of me that wishes I could tell that
younger version of me- maybe prepare him for what
is to come. But even given the opportunity, I’m not sure
that I could truly convey what to be prepared for.
But we’ll chalk up my pain to character development,
and hope that one day, when I revisit my autobiography
again, I’ll look back on this chapter with a smile on
my face and the scabs on my heart scarred over.
I hope I continue to write my story and that I have
people still willing to listen to my words.
Harsh Aug 2018
You said that you wanted to explore our newfound
independence and experience the world around you.
We parted ways- you choosing a path that you knew
you’d take, while I was left to shovel my own path out
of the wilderness that now surrounded me. I’ve been
stumbling around for months now, and I have the cuts
and bruises to show for it; I am spent and at the last
reserves of patience and hope. My heart feels like a broken
compass and I’m not sure that I ought to be following it,
but I sure as hell don’t know my way out of this mess.
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