you are not delicate.
when your flesh bruises, when your bones break, when your head aches, when your lover leaves, you will carry on.
there is a reason tears do not burn skin.
your muscles were made to lift your heavy heart and leaden legs.
you were made to carry on.
so when he says "i don't love you anymore," your bones will not allow you to collapse, your muscles will carry you forward. there is a reason your eyes are in the front of your head. don't look back.
you will not break.
you are not a cheap manufactured toy.
you are an exquisite human being hand-crafted by the likes of god,
heavy bones and bundled muscle
you are made of blood, sweat, and tears and you are resilient.
your heart strings are made of solid steel and though you may not have an iron grip, you learn to catch the curveballs. i promise
i know that your past sits on your shoulders, i promise that you were made to bear its weight.
so no, you will not break.
you are not delicate. you are strong, you are beautiful, you are unique.
you will not break.
you will endure
step into the surf.
waves surge over your ankles,
unexpected speed, threatening push.
wade thigh-deep on sea legs,
digging your toes into the sand,
timing your steps with the waves
as earth and moon play tug-of-war.
the drop-off slingshots your heart into your throat.
making slow progress to the ******* --
you're unfamiliar with this marine rhythm.
the ocean knows you don't belong on this dance floor.
stand up, fighting riptide, undertow.
side-tackle weakened waves
hitting the ******* like brick walls,
each an oceanic supernova with whitecaps imploding.
surrender to one,
let it ****** your feet from under you,
immerse you in its raging swansong.
it traveled a thousand miles to die
on this insignificant strip of coastline.
i don't think enough people realize that the ocean is both beautiful and terrible.
there's no progress report for this.
no checklist, no itinerary,
no template to restore order
in the aftermath of your tornado path through my heart.
the chaos is powerful and uncontrollable;
i can only watch the person i was with you crumble away
and sweep up the dust.
sometimes i take inventory:
am i eighty-five percent guilt today,
or thirty-nine percent confusion?
or fifty-four percent loss,
or one hundred percent ache,
hot salt water springs bubbling up
from just a brush with the magma burning below the surface?
dust is beginning to settle on the box of our memories that i hid away, where the twister would never touch it.
if only there was some way to give time through an IV,
because i don't know what to do with this heart-shaped stone in my chest.
old poem, but with a few tweaks it's alright.
she's been different since the flame in her eyes got snuffed out;
they say it's heartbreak but i think a better word is hibernation.
she lights up and ***** smoke into her deepest, darkest corners
but it's not quite the same as a fire in her own hearth.
and maybe the whiskey burns her throat the same way
the words she spit to defend her ideas did
but sparks haven't flown from her voicebox in a long time.
*******, she gave a whole new meaning to carrying a torch for that boy
but now her life is going up in flames.
and wouldn't you think, after that, those substance burns
would be a hell of a lot less dangerous than going supernova.
eventually, every wildfire burns itself out.
I'm sorry for being a natural disaster.
I'm sorry the way my mood changes turns you into a quiet rumble of thunder, always dragging behind the lightning bolt until the full force of nature's fury is pounding down on your head.
I'm sorry for skidding into your world like a golden-tinged summer daydream and leaving it like a levee breaking.
I'm sorry for writing about you so much that your name is carved into my fingertips like water shapes a rock formation -- my journal probably wouldn't weigh so much if all my baggage wasn't crammed inside it.
I'm sorry that I can only write in figurative language lately but the concise truth is like walking barefoot on ice and after a while it's so cold it burns:
I never really loved you.
But admitting it means hailstones of lies battering my already-crumbling storm shelter, all our sunny afternoons grayed out by cloud cover.
And I'm sorry beyond all the weather metaphors in the world, but I can't bear that.
Wrote the backbone of this in the ten minutes given during class, then tweaked it a little bit at home, but it's still 100% based on that overdone "girl like a natural disaster" thing. Got me out of my writer's block a little bit though.