The Worst Part

The worst part
of being cheated on
is knowing that even for just a few moments
you weren’t enough
to make him want to stay.

My consolation prize is knowing that neither was she

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Trying on Forgiveness

In response to the apology
she never graced me with:

How dare you,
how dare you show remorse,
regret,
when at one point
hurting me
was all you thought about?

How could you stand there,
watching me beaming
like a chandelier with a second chance
to dazzle in a different foyer,
and not see
that he was shining the light
that bounced from my skin?

How was it
when you kissed him
and tasted my lips there,
previously having claimed that landscape for my own,
determined to lock you out
but not reaching the deadbolt
in time?

If she asked me for forgiveness
I’d choke on the memories
she forces me to drown in each morning
and spit out my tongue
because the taste of it still reminds me of him.
I’d tell her how completely she killed me,
how I can’t look in mirrors anymore
without seeing ghosts and hollow eyes,
the shell of a person who was once almost whole again.
I would tell her
you meant more to me
than she would have ever realized;
you were the sun,
the moon and all her stars
and I was the blackness that surrounded you,
happy because being beside your light
detracted from my darkness
and I was content being background noise
to a beautiful solar system.

I’d ask her
if she had known
that you were the only strings holding me up
would she have still been so willing
to bring the scissors?

California Sunset

The idea of a California sunset
has always seemed, to me, romanticized,
Hollywoodified,
overrated and glorified,
like a movie cliche you’ve seen
time and time again.

But the first time
you see the flamingo pink haze
collide with seagulls and baby blues
in a distant heaven
that crashed against
the ocean horizon
then you realize:
it’s nothing like they said it was,
it’s better.

Perspective

I wonder how different

all the versions of myself are

that live in the minds of other people, 

wonder how I measure

in the eyes of each acquaintance,

passing stranger,

one-time-colleague,

almost friend,

I have ever known. 

I read somewhere 

that no matter what you do, 

you will always be plagued 

by those who hate you,

spite you,

resent you,

unconsequently suffocate you

with back-handed comments 

that leave your throat dry. 

What the article didn’t mention

was the amount of people 

who will appreciate your tenderness,

your raw and bleeding heart,

your stupid puns, 

your inability to dance 

with an insistence of doing it anyways;

they will see you as so much more

than your bedroom mirror. 

I wonder how different 

all the versions of myself are

that live in the minds of other people,

and I wonder if there’s any

 I would like. 

– remarks 

Relearning how to Breathe

The act of writing
has always calmed me:
I spit out poetry like wildfire
and sometimes
it’s all I need to douse the flames.
The art of curving letters,
manipulating the alphabet
to create new worlds
has always been
my favourite bandage.

So for me, being speechless
equates with numbness,
a reality where the words in my mind
and on my tongue
don’t reach my fingertips
and never grace pages;
it is my own personal ninth circle,
where the demons
are the dark, twisted stories
trying to snake their way
into poisoning my parchment.

I can’t breathe
without the right words
to describe how the sweet mountain air tastes
when paired with the bitterness of a fresh betrayal.
And I can’t speak
because for once
I have no words
to fix this.

being silent