I Only Ever Wrote For You After Our End

I only ever wrote for you after our end

Which meant every poem tasted too much like an overripe obituary on the tongue

But when has guilt ever stopped me from doing something I shouldn't

What has poetry ever done but turn me selfish

Let me repaint everything in shades that complement the tale of my own tragedy

For what is the heartbreak of an artist

If not another poem the world could have done without

These days, I look at my body and wonder how I could have ever been at war with something so soft

03.08.22

I dont know if I deserve you

But I know I am deserving of peace

I ask her

When was the last time you took what you deserved

She asks me

When was the last time you let go of what you did not

Revalations have historically always come in

Pieces

But I do not want to wait until the end to be whole

Perhaps failure is a learnt habit

Perhaps we are born with all the potential we will ever bear

Perhaps my existence is but circumstantial evidence

Blossoming doubt

Look at who I have become

All unfulfilled potential

And weeping willow

All blunted tongue and

Blurred edges

Is this what I am destined for?

Subar symphonies and the suburbs

Becoming my mother

Who keeps her highschool poetry

In her youthful handwriting

In a baby blue file folder

On the top shelf of her closet

We have always been my favourite tragedy

The curtain falls and keeps falling

For all you ever did was love me like leaving would be easier

And tell me you have never dreamed of

Being loved first

For does anyone truly know desire

'Till they have wanted that

Which they cannot have?

- haphazard harmony (another compilation of random lines without a poem)

My favourite Poet gets married

And I lament to my friend that there will be no more heartbreak poems

And is this not the kind of tragedy we all long for

The thing about art and

Artist

Is that they are confusing most of the time

Until you have lived the heartbreak of a muse

Until you have lost a child

Or a childhood

Until you have buried your mother

Or resurrected yourself

Until you have spent a summer drowning

In your own oceans

Until you have forgotten the colour of the sky

Or his skin

And maybe this is why I am so

Confused

Because I have not lived this heartbreak yet

But every one of her poems was about a lover lost

And I think of all the loss haunting her love

I think of all the ghost girls under their bed

I think of all the poetry she wrote about someone else

And I cannot understand it

~

He tells me that he loved her for six years

That she was the person that knew him best in the world

He still says her name like he may yet summon her ghost

The consonants getting caught in his teeth

I imagine he tastes her with every mouthful of promises he makes me

All the songs he sings me reminds him of her

I keep them all like scars

~

He says he loves me

And I try to believe him

But it is hard when

All I can imagine is how he would have loved her till the end

If he could have

- to the poems I never had the heart to finish because of you

I grow old and wonder if writing poetry has always been this hard

I wonder what I wouldn't sacrifice for a muse

I would give my youth if I had any left to offer

The only thing I have ever wanted more than to be a writer

Is to be loved

But these days I wonder

If there is really a difference

For where do I exist if not between the lines of every poem I have never written

And if I do not write my story who will

And if I do not claw my metaphors into your tear ducts

Who will remember me

Who will remember me

- Hiatus

You return for me

Once I've finally

Bled your name

Out my veins 

Sometimes there is grief

But most days there is only

The space in my heart

You left behind

Where nothing grows

Anymore

- somedays missing you is an ocean and somedays it is drought