while chewing on the sandwich i was given
i failed to notice the ruffage and the soil of my glamour
only the ludicrous measure of my apathy and passion.
only the girl of my memes and the maladaptive gnomes
of my moveable feast.
i saw through the aerosols and the Hindi.
i ate nothing but net.
i slept with a barstool and a comet.
and asked you " Why? ".
and said, Less.
it feels like my brain has crumbled
and there's all of this empty space
to create something new,
but the only material I have to work with
is the ruins of the old brain.
I'm rearranging the pieces.
I revisited the I don't want to live part of my brain
and moved the don't in between I and want to give up.
I relocated trauma and built it next to strength.
the maladaptive thoughts revisit sometimes,
but they never manifest into action anymore.
I couldn't destroy the I deserve this piece,
so I centered it in love and kindness.
I thought the inside of my head was built to last.
once you put clay into a kiln,
it's impossible to reshape it without breaking it.
there was hesitance before the destruction.
there was a crack, a catastasis, but a calm collapse,
and in the rubble, I saw a way to heal.
I never knew a wrecking ball could be so gentle.
With the same pen and paper as the last love letter I wrote, I now write this.
Everyday he'll suffer in silence and I'll be content with the thought. The same hand that wrote loving words is the same hand that brought tears to his eyes.
Over betrayal and deceit hidden in plain view with a longing of decadence and validation.
He choose carefully, or so he thought - the wounded of the flock.
But he knew...somehow that I was different.
Unable to be read like a simple book, I am that of an enigma to most, alluring to others.
I could have loved that side of him -- the part unrestrained by persona. The damaged part, carefully tucked away.
But the beast must be fed by the tears of the innocent,
a pervasive pattern of loving women he made love him back.
He fed his soul with their sadness.
For he deceived them for proof of love and in it, he destroyed himself.
Day by day, he'll look at me and realize, like the last - he was wrong.
That someone had cared and someone was hurt, and that was not I.
And I am grateful -
for not loving a traitor.
To his own cause or mine.
Because every time he looks for validation in the tears of others.
I will not be there
and he will not find me.
— The End —