disclaimer:
I’m thinking about the hourglass in your mouth.
this is what is left behind
when the dust has settled.

please find attached:-
my heart.

my apoplexy, this, your words bleeding into me
settling, stagnant
clotting around the end of us -
salvaging the wound.

to have something, but not be able to truly hold it,
liquid, seeping through your fingers -
to see it pooled on the floor, the remnants of something you had
so transiently your fingers don’t even feel wet with it,
[not at all]
not when you’d rather be immersed.

you see, I don’t like to be in my body because it only serves to
remind me where your hands once were.
when all you want is what you had,
what is left behind in your palms?
whispers of the last time they were held,
and a kind of vacancy you don’t want to fill.

[close your eyes, breathe,
count how long it takes to fall apart]

interesting
to think of the systemic effects of heartbreak.
interesting
how you can pull one heart string and I’ll unravel.
I know I’ve been a shadow of myself lately;
it’s called “going through the motions”,
apologies.

safe as in a place,
safe as in your arms,
safe as in has-been once-was
and never again.
what happens when the goods commodify themselves?

I have never missed someone like I miss you,
have missed you since the day of my exile from your heart
a concept: existence as a kind of festering,
as though I’m in the last place I saw you like a finger probing the wound,
septic and exactly the wrong kind of comfort:
there is no unloving.

it comes in waves - the weight and salt of it
makes my back ache and my eyes sting.
you see, I’ve never been vulnerable like this before, and I’m wondering if
there’s a limit as to how broken a person can be,
the same way you can only fold a piece of A4 paper in half seven times?

I wanted to be unforgettable
and now I’m just trying to Be,
hoping that somewhere I linger

eat my feelings,
stick pencils down my throat
  ***** poetry.

if my heart is on my sleeve and my sadness upon my eyelids;
then my belly is a processor,
and all it spits out is simply
a checklist
of all the things we could have been
- our morphogenesis, our eulogy.

please. thank you.

it's easy.

1. let him enchant you

you’ll think you’re above this, you’ll think you’re the one with him wrapped around your finger; meanwhile, you don’t notice your own body knotting -

2. let him in

let him know you. let him know your day, your thoughts, bits of your heart. share music, share opinions, laughter. let him find you interesting, funny, witty, whatever else. let him find you something that matters.

3. be vulnerable

this part is hard for you. you’re normally so grounded. but tell yourself it’s okay; he’s the smart, beautiful boy with the kind eyes and he’d never hurt you. you know this latter part to be absolutely true. tell yourself that, even you, the eternal pessimist, deserves to be optimistic about perhaps just this one thing. for once be tender to yourself. trust the sky won’t fall.

4. get comfortable.

this step is absolutely essential in the process. crave his touch, smile into his kisses because you’re just so **** happy, wow!, sleep sound beside him and know you can tell him anything; your thoughts are never unacceptable. plan ahead because there's no reason not to. don’t realise that gut feelings of longevity don’t necessarily go both ways.

5. be blindsided

the day comes when he decides to break your heart, and you’re busy planning what to make him for breakfast. have the wind knocked out of you, and the tears, too. he’s crying as well, and he knows you didn’t see this coming, didn’t think he’d be the one having to do this. he says all of the nice things about you, tries to be chivalrous; says he’ll miss you. it’s strange that as the two of you fall apart, you’re thinking about how well you fit together. it feels like a waste to throw away something that’s barely begun, but if he says it’s not right you can’t argue. maybe it is just the distance, maybe it would have worked out otherwise, or maybe not. regardless, you’re left with the feeling of something gorgeous - some piece of art - left unfinished. you can’t even get angry because you know he didn’t want to hurt you. you’re soft for him, and now you’re pulp, floored and wondering why you can’t stop forgiving the boy who put you there.

nice boys break hearts the worst because they do it with kindness, with good intentions peppered with apologies and well-meaning and ‘I wish it could have worked out, you know’, ‘it’s not that I don’t care’. they always think you deserve better, but don’t realise they’re it. now you have to navigate a world in which the confluence of your bodies doesn’t exist anymore, in which the poetry of romantics isn’t for you any longer.

breathe. countdown.