Closure is for stories written in dignified calligraphy.
Our ending was spilled ink.
Messy . Dark . And forever staining what I thought was the perfect surface .
Denial is a bitch . But you’re a bigger one.
I feel the pressure splinter my ribs into tiny fragments.
Was I allowed to choose myself?
Was I allowed to pack up and vacate your life?
A life that once had your polaroids hidden in my jean pockets.
The one that left your clothes clogging my closet floor.
Your cheap cologne still drenches the sleeves..
I am always the one who is chosen last.
The consolation prize to myself .
Never again will I get fooled into thinking guilt is the price for being free of you.
Dear anger you are valid and justified.
I will not calm your fire with “ it’s gonna be okay”.
You can eat anything you desire .
You can wreck the memories of the one who betrayed me.
You can burn this motherfucker to the ground.
The pillars of our love were built on manipulation, and fallacy.
Remind me why I should never look back.
The absence of your presence is a hard pill to swallow.
Never again will familiar fingertips grace my skin.
My pillows are soaked from the tears of loss.
My partner until the bitter end.
I must pick myself back up again.
Yet everytime I try my feet fail to meet the floor.
I will lay here until I finally evaporate.
This is depression. And it fucking sucks.
My world painted in watercolor.
Dripping with promise, I cover the grey canvas in vivid blue.
My heart still pumps blood.
My lungs have gifted me another day of full breaths and fresh air.
when your lips never formed the words
Acceptance is not exoneration.
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