The Detachment Series.
Beginning: “Each time he laughs it’s Neosporin to my scrapped up heart.”
i.
How I would love to meet you before I met you.
Where was your head?
Where was your heart?
If only I could assume you were a little different.
Assumption would lead me nowhere
Because the beauty of you is your stubbornness to who you are;
You don't seem to change one bit.
Which is such a rare ruby to find in a world full of dull, lifeless stones.
So who am I to guess who you were before me?
ii.
What a fuckery the effects of fear do to us.
I wanted to word vomit “I love you.”
After you said your usual smartass comment
I sat on your cold, white bathroom tile, rolled my eyes, and playfully said
“I hate you.”
Just from those three words in the English language,
Everything went sterile.
You only got to hear I hate you, not I love you.
Why do we do this to ourselves?
When we know the consequences of us acting as a slave to our fears always ends up worse than acting on our true intentions.
Middle: “Cupid is worse than the devil”
i.
The comfort in worry.
Worrying if I’m taking too much of the bed,
If he got enough sleep,
If I snored,
If he has enough blanket.
i still worry at bedtime.
the comfort is a ghost now.
after such a long time, i am my only concern.
no one else to worry about; to care about.
now I understand why people don’t like sleeping alone.
ii.
she is now a materialistic twenty-something girl.
i have all of these books to surround me at night,
a closet that hangs pretty, pristine pieces worth four-digit price tags.
a new living room set.
niche beauty products glamorized by people i don’t know
somehow found sanctuary in my bathroom cabinet.
constantly filling my apartment to make me feel maybe a certain presence.
a certain presence to give me that special comfort and company.
i'm still not comfortable-
and i still have no company.
i keep going and going, trying and trying,
in hopes one day something i buy can fill the empty space of the one thing i can't ever have.
iii.
i want my mascara stains to still be on your sheets
from our last night i just cried and cried on your red t-shirt.
i want you to feel dread of going out and having someone approach you.
i want you to hate showering as i do now.
i want to see you just so I know i'm not the only one grieving.
i want a lot of things.
because i am selfish.
how could you not be?
End: “My fairytale has exposed itself to only be fiction.”
i.
I allowed myself to pick up a pen and write about this.
To force myself to believe in it all;
The beginning, middle, and abrupt end.
I didn't want to believe in the end so much I had to put it in ink.
Because once you point it out
And take your final bow,
The curtain finally closes,
As the audience claps,
And everyone goes home.