Poem: What Once Was, Shall Never Be

​You used to brag,

About all the ex-lovers you kept as friends, 

How different you were,

How unbiased you became,

So excuse me if I wither at your words,

And your claim to old flames,

For I sit extinguished,

In everyone else's gaze.

Every pleasant word spoken,

For anothers worth,

And as I sat with you for years, 

All I’m left with is tears,

Of what we used to be,

Of what we could have been,

And now, at the edge of beginning and end,

I teeter between both as I’m want to do,

Stuck in memories of me and you,

So when you say you rather part ways,

Excuse my lack of words,

I begged as much as I could,

To make you see my worth.

Instead, you saw me as a monster,

Waiting for our end,

When in reality, it was the opposite instead.

With open eyes, you saw,

Without truly seeing,

And as I watched you fall,

From the man I thought you to be,

I gathered up the last bit of me,

And slunk away,

Ashamed at how things came to be. 

So excuse me for my tears,

I’m not yet done mourning,

The plans that we were making, 

The old we planned on sharing,

And with clear understanding I sit,

A hollowed out mess of the girl I used to be,

When everyone had a piece,

Once done,

They did away with me,

So, excuse my lack of begging,

I’ve done more than enough of that,

If you can’t give me a little bit of understanding,

Then I can’t fight you on it,

I needed you to see me clearly,

But in a fog, you fought the wrong fight,

When I showed you my inner demons,

You made up new ones for me to fight,

Instead of being there,

You left me alone at night,

And in my heart of hearts,

I started to see no light.

So excuse me, my grief,

For I’ve never been here before,

When I thought we would be forever,

It meant I’d be watching you leave through that door,

Of a home we began to make,

In easier of times,

In the days we had hoped for,

But now we’ve parted ways,

And even as I sit,

The memories that were made,

In my head, I think back,

On the lovers, you made friends,

And how even as darkness looms,

A part of me still craves, 

For the man you were back then,

The one who bragged about your difference,

And how unbiased you had been,

When we first started,

Two bright-eyed in love kids,

Now I sit,

My fingers tracing your words,

That in any kind of way,

We will never be,

Something so poetic, 

I guess,

Was never meant to be. 

Wait: My Love

​Waiting,

I think,

Is such an awful waste of time,

We spend our lives waiting,

For the week to get better,

For agreeable weather to be had,

For Life to be less stressful,

We wait and wait,

Oh, do we wait,

If waiting were our lover,

Oh, the time we would have spent.

Closure

​Closure,

He says,

In my reality, 

I didn't wish for this,

When I speak up,

It's painful,

Almost inconceivable, 

But I do it with heart, 

If I voice my hurt,

It's substantial, 

studied, 

thought on,

It's nothing I would hold against,

But something that tears me up,

So when I spread the doors wide,

I want to save what we have,

When my mind says to take flight,

My heart tells me to fight,

I wage a war between fact,

And the fiction that keeps me safe,

With broken heart shards scraped into a heap,

I hope you hear what I mean as I weep,

Yet in true fashion,

What I meant gets twisted,

Shaped into something else,

And when night falls and lies lay between us,

Heavy like wet shrouds on a line, 

Where once love was made,

Now promises lay broken,

When the voices of others cloud my already unsure portrayal,

And your eyes remain unopened,

I quiet. 

In the stillness of the house, 

The silence that claims space,

With my unquieted sense,

Where do I hide?

If not In my mind,

From the recollections of us,

From the life that we shared,

And the future we prepared,

Now all that stretches out,

Before me like a holiday spread,

No fanfare to be had,

Over this Thanksgiving bread,

But choices that were made,

Sacrifices that were had,

All I end up here, 

Is solitary,

Crying in our bed,

I still.

With choices made,

And words left unsaid,

I'll let you assume,

What you rather instead,

I'll be the villain,

It will be better that way,

Then to tell you I love you,

And devastate your day, 

I'll stay reserved,

It's best to not be in the way, 

From the healing you need to do,

From our parting of way,

Where once you were the best of me,

It's hard to exist where you are not, 

Then to understand who I am,

When you are where you are not. 

But in the end,

I digress,

After all,

I want what will be best. 

How It Used To Be

​.

When I feel loneliness settle heavily in my bones, I turn toward my writing and create, remember, and live another moment in my favorite memories.

I’ll just disappear for a while. I drift in and out until unconsciousness takes over, and I'm lost in happier times.

I fix the bad parts and plaster over them with something new.

Like repairing a hole in a wall, I create something from nothing in hope of anything.

And even when my reality has changed, at least I can’t visit them when my world hadn’t imploded.

They’ll smile at me still, their laughter ringing through the cold quiet of my house.

They are the treat I spoil myself with over my morning coffee or right before I go to sleep…

How it used to be…

.

Hooked on a Feeling

​I messed up and fell in love with a feeling. It’s as nonchalant and auspicious as it sounds, loving a feeling, not just a person.

Falling for feeling is this emotional journey, a rollercoaster of ups and downs and whispers to yourself, wondering if you have gone insane. You may have, which ends up being fine until you can’t explain it because It’s overwhelming. 

You spend your time with eyes closed remembering the warm embrace of that feeling, that all-consuming breath of fresh air that filled your lungs after years of stagnant, shallow breaths. Your heart feels full, your eyes are bright, and you just feel this irrepressible need to smile as wide as you can because you are filled to the brim with a happiness you only tasted once or twice. You feel it thawing your cool, dark corners, ironing out your creased edges, clearing out the corners you sat in too long without this life-saving touch of magic. 

And it’s addictive.

You spend your life chasing that happiness high. It’s when you continually fall short; you’ll lap up any little drop you can get in the hopes of remembering that one time when happiness completed you. 

You’ll research, you will look in every person's eyes for arhat light, search their hugs for that chest-expanding pressure but end up getting frustrated with human touch when nothing ignites that tiny flame.

You keep on breathing your shallow breaths, gulping in the stale air with your tight chest, hoping to fill your crumbling facade with a passable amount of lackluster joy.

In hopes of holding out for that feeling, you felt only so many times before, like an addict at the alter waiting for that one little fix of pure joy of human existence. 

The Lie I Call Hope

 The biggest lie I keep telling myself is not to lose hope when at the end of every day, I stare hopelessness in the eyes and repeat the one sentence I hold on to in the hope of a better day. What if the lie we tell ourselves to stay hopeful is the only thing that tethers us to our Earthly bonds? Because without the hope of better days, sunny days, or happiness beyond our imagination, what else do we have to hold on to except for hope?

When hope is nothing more than this imaginary God we pray to, what then? What is the next thing we cling to when we discover its presence is a mere illusion? To our faith? Which is only hope in disguise. We’re told not to lose hope, to have faith in the unknown, and to mindlessly go where we are led because that’s where we are meant to be. But what if we weren’t meant to be anything more than hopeless romantics, clinging desperately to our faith in a higher power, waiting around blindly for love, happiness, for calm?
What if some of us weren’t meant to know such bliss?
What if we were all capable of questioning the existence of hope, faith, and wishing on shooting stars? If nothing more, we disillusion ourselves in these vivid daydreams that play out in endless loops until we are lost in imagination to wake up the following day, thrown back into the dullness we call reality. We make the bed, brush our teeth, drink our coffee, and do it in the stillness of a house that once knew laughter.
Sometimes, though, it might just exist inside, and as you walk through the quiet halls, you see what could be in your imagination's eye and feel the weight of grief fall heavy at each slap of barefoot to cool tile. Yet we dream, we hope, we pray, we wish, and we have faith that there’s something more for us out there, somewhere. If only we believe we deserve more, more will manifest and swarm you with the warmth your abysmal life had been lacking.
But I digress.
It’s a different scene than anyone ever played out; I see the happiness, the rooms filled with love, the house with laughter and games being played. There’s music bouncing wall to wall, of furniture being scooted across the wall to make room for dance moves or movie nights. In my head, it’s this perfect little package full of love, not the heartache my body clings to.
Yet I hope for the better days, pray for the clouds to part, believe there’s something more for me out there, and wish on every shooting star for any drop of happiness I can lap up.
Hope is not only the life preserver I hold on to but also the wave that pushes me under.

Yet, I still cling to it.

WP: Shutdown

 

Writing Prompt:

Shutdown - Joywave

Take

Take in a deep breath

Get in a little rest

Yeah, you're safer here than you were out there

So feel those feelings that you used to have

Feel those feelings again or at least pretend

Shut it down

Get carried away

Solid ground

Is here to stay
___

"Why did he leave me?" She wailed, her sad voice echoing softly off the bathroom tiles.
She was trying hard to get a grip on herself as her fingers curled around her throat amid another soul-wrenching sob that choked her on its way out. She sounded strangled, like she was in pain, which she was, but she was trying to hold the shaking of her hands at bay, save for her entire body feeling like it was caving in on itself. The pain was far more than emotional at this point, she was digging her nails into her tender flesh, trying to dig her way back out, but all she succeeded in was creating half-moons on her skin.
"Why does everyone leave me?"
She knew why they did; it always came after one misunderstanding after another. She thought she was easy to love, but they always walked out after she brought up something that hurt. No matter how softly she spoke or how harshly she cried about the hurt, it never mattered how it came out; it never stopped anyone from leaving her in a pile of deflated flesh and bones covered in tears and years of emotional bruising. 
Her heart hurt as it thumped wildly, her sternum hurt from the anxiety, her fingers hurt from gripping, her skin hurt from her nails digging, and her entire body felt like it was cramped up and stiff from clenching every muscle after each sob that tensed her up with uncontrollable shaking.
Why do people fall in love repeatedly if this is the outcome? If folding some shirts did her to this extent, she couldn't imagine when the boxes were gone, when he took up nearly an inch in the apartment, or his face no longer being there in her mind.
It's the smell in those same shirts, the ones she bought folded in between old ones, layers of past and present, the images of him in each article, and then another body-tensing sob escapes just as she covers her mouth and cries into it. Her eyes are held tightly shut, but the tears stream out hot down her cheeks and neck, soaking her camisole. She was losing it, her brain echoed the sentiment every few sobs, but she couldn't be bothered with the feelings of understanding because she didn't understand a thing.
She didn't understand why he would treat her differently enough to hurt her, even insecure in himself; why did he thrust those feelings down her throat like emotional rape? His cold fingers threaded through her hair and held it in a fist until she became uncertain and ashamed for staying in a relationship that hurt more than it healed.
Another sob made her bite down on her bottom lip as it quivered.
He was never like that, cruel, harsh, and mean. He was once a kind-hearted man who would bend backward and give the shirt off his back to make someone smile.
It took months for her to realize that he was struggling with some demon or another, but she lacked the willpower to help him while she was trying just to stay afloat herself. With open arms, he spurred her away. All she wanted was his arms around her, but as he changed, so did she. She began to self-soothe, hide in her room, spend more time away from the house, and more time distracted by anything and everything, so she didn't feel the pain.
She took a shaky deep breath as the sobbing subsided for a moment; her hands drifted down her body to rest curled on the cool floor, her head dropping back on the wall to look up at the dark ceiling. One by one she willed her muscles and stiff joints to try to relax while they had a moment of peace. She knew it wouldn’t be long until another onslaught came because her memories constantly stirred up a new batch.

She went to the bathroom in time to dry heave and gasp as bile filled her throat and tears seared her eyes. She should be used to the pain, to this heartache, but it was all a bunch of feelings she stored away in hopes she wouldn’t need the memory of them again. She sat in her pile of towels she dragged to the floor on her way down the emotional rabbit hole.
When friends asked her if she was okay, she would nod and smile. When strangers asked her about her day, she would say it was good; when her therapist asked her about her relationship status, she said it had never been better!
It had been better; she couldn’t talk about the pain he had started to inflict on her already wounded soul years after the scars had begun to heal.
She absently stroked her arm up and down as she slid her legs down and out in front of her, her feet relaxing and falling comfortably.
She was used to hiding in bathrooms to cry, the soul-searing pain, the burning tear tracks on her cheeks from calling sore tear ducts that were pissed off from the amount of salty water that had come out in the past several days.
Her brain was weary with such emotional turmoil, and her limbs were ready to give up on holding anything else together if she couldn’t even try herself. Her body was crumbling one mental and emotional pillar at a time, and she was helpless against the tearful onslaught of mental warfare.
She sniffled but leaned over for tissue paper to clear her nose. Crying made her face hurt and her nose run; it made her whole body riot because everything inside her hated being sad.
But her body had the muscle memory of sadness, heartbreak, emotional upheaval, and the destruction of her known world. What she had once started making whole once again collapsed at her feet while he strolled away, blaming her.
He ended up being like everyone else, throwing the blame her way while she stayed quiet in the background avoiding everyone's looks of distaste and shame.
The shame, she thought, was the worst.
It wasn’t hers to feel, but oh, did she think it. Years of shame were cast on her for speaking out against injustice and then being thrown into the bullpen of hurled insults, lies, and buckets of blood-red shame dumped upon her emotionally crippled body.
When all you want is the love of another, you close your eyes to the flags thrown out over the years in hopes that it’s only temporary. When you open your mouth, she found, to wonder aloud at the slights, the candid insults hidden in humor or spoken in front of an audience, do you get them all thrown back into your face?
Shame on you, they’d say, and I’d agree. Shame on me for believing that this time would be the last. Each time this happens, it gets worse; the healing never quite sticks because we don’t know when the scars are healed until the next one steps up and starts picking at the scabs or cutting back open the wounds.
It's a never-ending dance with the devil, but I crave his touch when I don’t receive it freely. I laid my sacrifice at his feet each time, my heart beating its pathetic little beat, ill-timed, bruised, for better or worse, I offer it up to the next contender in hopes I don’t fall back to my knees on the tiled floor.

The scenery is always different, but the destination is always the same. Cold tiles, a pile of towels, and plenty of tears to wash clean any transgressions against me.
But there would always lay shame.
Because of the pointed stares, and the whispers behind my back, my voice has always been louder as she looks at herself in the mirror.
“This is what you deserve,” She whispered, tears trickling down her sallow, colorless cheeks, “you’re meant to be alone, remember? That’s what she told you. You’d never be worth anyone's love. You’re better off alone because, at least alone, you won’t feel the deep sadness of watching someone push away from you, disappear from your view even though they’re right next to you. You’ll never be enough. No matter what you do or if you succeed in life, you’ll never be enough for anyone because you can’t even be enough for yourself. Your family doesn’t even love you. What makes you think someone will stick by your side? Everyone left you; if you could, you’d leave yourself too. You're not worth sticking around. Once they took the best parts of you, the ones you offer without hesitation, you’ll be left again to pick up the pieces.”
Her eyes well with tears again, but she stays slumped against the wall and just lets the tears follow their predecessors salty tracks.
“Stop it.” She shakily whispered to herself. She knew this train of thought would not help her current situation because she was nearing a time when she needed a hard reset. Like a computer facing a reboot, she was there; she had all she could take in the emotional department and was ready to sleep it off.
She turned her head to look out of the bathroom door to the soft glow of her bedroom light spilling softly across the beige tiles, a warm, welcoming glow. She didn’t know how many naps she could take until she returned to normalcy.
She lifted a hand to swipe at her tears with the palm of her hand.
She wasn’t made for this much pain, and she knew she could only hold out for so long before the depression would set in and whisper dark thoughts that would echo like a calming balm on her wounded soul. She wasn’t one to listen to the calling of Death itself, but sometimes she indulged in the thought of the all-consuming darkness that would warm her from the inside out in its vast nothingness.
Or so she thought, but that wasn’t here nor there right this second.
Just this all-consuming sadness of an awful present and an unknown future.
She stayed on the floor until her brain went numb and quieted itself. She took the last bit of strength she could muster to stand up, pulling herself up one bit at a time from the broken shards of herself that lay on the floor around her. She washed her face, averting her eyes so she didn’t see the wreckage she had endured. She was embarrassed at her blatant show of grief that she could never look herself in the eye afterward. She peeled her clothes off, and a struggle ensued because she was weak, her arms heavy, her feet dragging, but once she hit that bed, she curled into the envelope of blankets that welcomed her into the fold.
She welcomed the temporary darkness with which she became fast friends because, within those dark moments of slumber, her dreams played out where there weren’t these lists upon lists of worries, problems, or trails of tears. The nightmare that became her life stayed away from her dreams, and she found a reprieve within her head where during waking hours, the same place that tortured her endlessly played on loop everything that had been said about her.
To be bullied in adulthood was a sad game to play, and no matter what you said, or what you did, or how good you behaved, or the good you provided, it would never be enough to hush the words spoken out loud.
Cheater, tramp, whore, liar, shameful girl, ungrateful, worthless, useless, she’ll never be good enough.
She curls tighter into her blankets and closes her eyes tight.
“Stop it.” She repeats softly, pleading for the universe to calm her mind. Just for now, she promised, just stop it for now.
If it came back in the morning, like it always did, she’d be prepared to fight the good fight once again until she wound up huddled on the towels once more, no food in her stomach to let out.
Just for once, she needed the darkness to hold her through the night, to rock her softly, and remind her that maybe all of this was just a dream, that maybe once her well-traveled feet touched the ground in the morning, she felt that solid base beneath her. Until then, darkness promised, get carried away; this sadness isn’t here to stay.