[Break] Ups & [Break] Downs

~A collection of poems written for the sake of self-reflection and giving closure to past relationships~

1) Expiration Date

Our love was like spoilt milk

It went off earlier than I anticipated, and I could not get myself to throw it away.

We kept it for months and got so numb to the sourness it somehow tasted sweet.

We carried on blindingly drinking the miserable liquid even when it

 became toxic and was poisoning our insides.

Till one day you grew sick of it and decided to get rid of it.

Leaving me desperately ravaging through the garbage,

For the last few sour drops of us.

  

~ 

2) Tearing it down

It started off as nothing

I could see you clearly

I could touch you if I reached out

And so could you.

But slowly something came between us.

Each day another brick appeared

I tried to ignore it.

Until I couldn’t, because they started hiding your face.

And I couldn’t see you nor touch you anymore.

The wall grew higher and I could not climb it.

I just stood there with the reassurance that you were trying to find ways to tear it down.

But little did I know that there was no one waiting on the other side anymore.

~

3) Peeping Through

People say that we are like blank pages

But I think we are more like a blank wall

And every new experience is a fresh coat of paint.

I can’t tear up your page just like I can’t completely erase the memories of you.

I will always carry you and the things you taught me.

I can only cover you up with other dull colours until I find one just as bright as yours.

But still, you’ll always find the way to peep through... 

~

4) Pen and Paper

It took me a while to realise that the problem in our relationship wasn’t necessarily me or you.

It was me trying to be you.

Instead of writing my part of our story, I only tried to copy yours.

I was obsessed with copying your every letter, your every twist and turn.

Just so that you wouldn’t stop reading my words.

I got so used to writing in your handwriting, I couldn’t even recognise my own in stories written before I met you.

And now that you left, completely unchanged and unaffected, I’ve forgotten who I am.

And I can’t even write my name without being reminded of you.

~

5) Breaking the Mould

I could not find your face in the love poems I wrote.

Still, I painted our relationship as something special, one of a kind.

I could not hear your voice in the love songs I listened to.

Still, I always said that they reminded me of you.

I moulded the real you into the idea of what I considered love.

I tried to convince myself that what we had was okay- more than okay, perfect.

I ignored all the signs and every one of my true feelings as not to mess with what my imagination had created.

And now I understand that just because I pretended not to see the signs, that didn’t mean you could not see them either.

So acknowledging that things weren’t perfect -even though it filled me with guilt, was quite comforting.

And I was actually freed when I realized that I didn’t really want you.

I wanted the kind of life I had sculptured in my mind.

And you just seemed to fit the mould.

~

6) Wounded

It was just a scratch that I thought would heal

But it kept bleeding for months and draining every strength.

I drugged myself up as not to feel the agony every time the needle pierced my skin and I stitched myself up.

I’ll admit I didn’t do a perfect job; there were times when droplets of blood would escape my wound and stain my shirt.

I would just apply alcohol and a band-aid to cover it up, wishing it gone.

At the sight of a similar wound on your body each and every stitch ripped open at once.

Shocked and overwhelmed and happy and relieved and scared and shocked.

Blood and pus oozed out of both of us, staining the sheets.

It hurt but it was oddly a beautiful -though short- pain.

We agreed that it should not be like that.

It should not be draining, tiring, remorseful.

So we decided to disappear for a while to heal, and save both our lives and those of others.

Still, it was scary how easily you seemed to heal and forget you ever bled at all.

I promised you not to bleed (as if it were that simple), but for a while I did.

In secret, and guilt-ridden.

The used-to-be-just-a-scratch was numb, so the new stitches didn’t hurt as much.

When I was done, I didn’t look at it again

Never have since that day.

Did it heal? Did it not?

Am I bleeding out without me knowing?
Or do I feel the drainage and just try to convince myself otherwise?

Soon enough- if not already- the remaining blood will scab.

The wound will be completely botched after such torture, but at least it will be sealed.

Once and for all.

// optimistic pessimist//