~
By my standards,
he is a ten.
I'm sure you're
laughing right now--
"ooohhhh, she think's
he's a ten"--
but that's not
what I mean.
What I am trying to say is that,
on a scale from one to ten,
one being indicative of
experiencing little to no pain
and ten being indicative of
experiencing a pain whose presence
is capable of knocking the wind
straight out of me--
a pain that I do not
dare to fathom
for fear of prolonging it--
he was a hurricane.
My hurricane.
The eye of the storm,
his aloof ignorance
paralleled against the
violently cyclonic nature
of this heartache--
cacophonic in its impact
and blasphemous in
every context of the word
Love.
I don't think
getting caught in the rain
has ever hurt quite this much.
Yet,
I surrender to this hurt
the way the sea surrenders
to the Almighty Poseidon;
the way my feet surrender
to the rocks
tied round my ankles;
the way my soul surrenders
to its contusions
(so is a casualty
of a broken heart).
Still,
I imagine what it would be
like to kiss him
when I wake up in
the middle of the night,
lucid dreaming and
shivering against the bed sheets
(must be hypothermia,
I think;
the coldness of his
absence settling among the
loneliest parts of me).
I try to remind myself
that he was never
any happy ending of mine--
just an ending.
And something tells me
kissing him would feel
a little less
like thimbles
and a little more
like sewing needles.
After all,
he always did have
a way of silencing me,
my lips stitched together
into the most morbid
of embroideries.
Because god forbid
you dare question
a tempest--
even when he has
left you
to stew in your
own ruin--
for fear of provoking
his stormy wrath.
Part of me
has always been afraid
of him,
you know
Looking back now,
that should have been
my first indication
that I had been entertaining
an abusive relationship.
No,
he never laid a hand
on me.
But
I was terrified that
there would come a day
when he would eventually snap.
I can envision it--
ribs crack like lightning;
bruises congealing beneath
my eyes like grape jelly;
fingerprints seared
across my cheek;
my head held underwater,
until I've stopped
breathing altogether.
Of course, there exists
more than one way
to destroy a person,
though he will claim
that he has done nothing
to wrong me.
Surely,
he would tell me that I am just reading
too much into things.
S'pose it's your turn then,
darling:
Trace the brailed veins
of my shattered heart,
and feel all the ways
you have broken me so.
Let your eyes flit
across the expanse
of these water-logged stanzas--
tell me,
does the poetry not speak
for itself?
Or does my drowning not suffice?
Image Source:
Lana Del Rey Blue Jeans music video gif (n.d.). [image] Available at: https://www.bustle.com/articles/23747-19-things-youll-find-in-any-lana-del-rey-music-video-from-west-coast-to-blue [Accessed 7 Oct. 2018].
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