I’ve deleted Her. Erased Her from my life. Blocked Her from entering through every possible door.
Yet She exists in all my days. In all my thoughts.
I taught myself to love.
To love someone endlessly.
I made tiny jars and gave them to everyone filled with my love.
Then you came along.
And I could see that you needed love.
And so I created more of it to give you.
I made sure you never fell short of it.
I made sure that your jar was always kept full.
I saw you needed more and so I made sure you had the biggest jar there ever was. And even that I filled up for you. That kept you safe and happy. And it meant a lot to you.
Until one day, when you stopped coming to the jar. You stopped taking anything from it. And I didn’t know what to with all the love that I still have.
I wonder if you think of the jar like you used to. I wonder if you’ll ever come visit it.
I still keep it filled.
Right this very moment. These seconds. I’d never want anyone to see.
I would not want anyone to retweet this, like this, share it publicly. I’d never want these moments to be instagram’d, none of them flickr’d. Not one single ounce of this becoming a post on some wall.
I’m keeping them, as a draft. A reminder. A note to self.
Don’t you love anyone else ever again.
There is a constant change occurring within.
It didn’t take a long time to realize that.
Everything I’m trying to do or say changes to thoughts about you.
Every fucking thing.
My subconscious consumes my mind in seconds.
The minutest second after I wake up.
It’s like that song stuck in your head.
Just that I don’t want the song to be playing out of tune.
It creates a gallery, exhibiting paintings and photographs of you.
All I can do then is dwell in thoughts about you but this time only by myself.
Cause I am slowly disappearing from those photographs.
I am somehow forgotten to be painted.
I sat there crying as you left.
As then I asked my self ‘Fuck! Do men cry over this?’ I wondered why not? What on earth is so different about us that we aren’t ‘meant’ to ‘cry’ over women, over absofuckinglutely graceful women. Women who you have poured your heart and soul over. Why can’t we cry over women who make you feel like yourself, women who take their hands and run their magic all over your body. Whose name, just the sound of the beginning letters of her name turn you into fucking sand. Women who amaze you with their wit and words on a black board. Why can’t I cry for her? Why can’t I hold myself together when she decides she doesn’t want a fucking relationship. Why can’t I cry when I know that the days, weeks and months and maybe even bloody years won’t be the same as it was. Maybe it never will. Why can’t I cry when it hits me that I love her so much that I changed so many things in me that now I don’t know what to do with that change. She has gone. And I’m sitting there waiting for tears to come so that some of this pain may wash away as it rolls down burning deep crevices into my body. So deep that no amount of love could ever fill it up. That the scars may be seen so that no one tries to love me again.
May this pain gush out of me tearing me unrepairingly apart.