Which Is To Say I Fell Out Of Love With You To Save Myself. In An Act Of Self-preservation. To Keep Loving

Which is to say I fell out of love with you to save myself. In an act of self-preservation. To keep loving you would have killed me. So I stopped. And I think this is why you were the person out of all the persons I've ever loved that I got to keep in my life even after. Because loving you was growing up. Was realizing just because you can't have the entire good thing doesn't mean you have to deny yourself the piece offered. That a slice of lovely doesn't have to be the end of you. Was learning to make do with what I was given with a smile and a thank you. Was learning to be grateful. Because we don't always get to have what we want. And we can't keep throwing tantrums by having panic attacks in the bathroom over accidental glances and unintentionally broken promises.

Loving you was growing up. Was realizing some people are nice to everybody. They have a talent for making people feel wanted, but this does not mean that they want you, and that is okay. That is okay. Their kindness is not their fault. Loving you was growing up. Was realizing people are busy. People's lives don't stop because you have chosen this inopportune time to become madly infatuated with them. They don't text you back. They don't love you back. They don't think about you. They forget to ask about your day. They say things that hurt even when that wasn't what they meant to do. And you grow up. You brush it off. You realize this is not a reflection of your self worth. You stop expecting people to fulfill what you dreamed them up to be. You let them just be them. And you learn to let this be enough.

Because loving you was growing up. To keep loving you would have killed me, and I realized for the first time how childish it was to disintegrate into a hurricane of self-destruction when rejection was so softly gifted. To ache until I tore like it would change anything. And I suppose growing up doesn't have to mean wanting to live, but it at least meant trying. Which is to say I fell out of love with you to save myself. In an act of self-preservation. To keep loving you would have killed me. So I stopped. Which is an oversimplification of the process of withdrawal but I did. I fell out of love with you. And I am better for it.

~ #4: reflections on falling out of unrequited love with him

(Original excerpt removed from '#3: reflections on falling out of unrequited love with him')

Everyone says they would rather skip the small talk

Get to the deep stuff

The important things

As though the little things are not the entrance to the heart

The cracks and crevices not the softer way

To make home in ones affection

Over breaking open the ornate doors

Of their chambers

Leaving them bleeding out

So tell me

How you take your eggs

And that ponytails make your scalp itch

Tell me how long it takes you to drive to work

And where you like to sit on the train

Talk to me about weather

And about how you keep forgetting to take out the trash

So that one day when I show up with a cup of tea just the way you like it

And we talk the long path home

Just past the mural you love on 22nd street

You will know

Just how important

The little things are

To me

When they belong to you

~ i met her in September

You taught me a softer way to love. Which is to say I have always loved like wildfire. Always loved vicious. All or nothing. Overwhelming and unbearable and so hard it hurts. Always loved a war of desire leaving my heart a ravaged battlefield with thick scar tissue in the shape of words they never said. But we burnt out. Which is to say I fell out of love with you in the summer sun in the middle of a movie theatre parking lot and it had nothing to do with you. And I did not realize this for years in the aftermath of this heartbreak. It had nothing to do with you. For you had always been you. It was me. For it is always me and the moment I am disillusioned regarding exactly what I am deserving of. Regarding exactly what you are offering and what I had misinterpreted your open palms and open smile for. Which is to say I fell out of love with you to save myself. In an act of self-preservation. To keep loving you would have killed me. So I stopped. Which is an oversimplification of the process of withdrawal but I did. I fell out of love with you. And I am better for it.

Which is to say when I did, touching you ached less. Your name in my mouth didn't sting so much. Every time you talked about someone else it never cut deep enough to leave a mark. And then it stopped cutting at all. And then I started being happy for you. And now, all this time later, I suppose when I call you my friend I mean it. Which is to say I never text you first anymore and it isn't even on purpose. Which is to say we talk when we have time, usually when you are home from school for the break, and I laugh like renewal, but never with enough joy that it threatens to rip my seams. Which is to say I have not fallen in love with anyone since you but I'm okay with that. I know I could. Which is to say I do not rearrange plans when you call and I do not particularly care about seeming intelligent to you anymore. Or beautiful. Or talented. Or worthy. I don't worry about keeping you coming back. Because I know you'll return for us eventually. And we'll pick up where we left off. Like we cannot help but meet again where you last left the person I used to be.

But every time we are together for more than a handful of moments I am in love with you again. And my heartbeat syncs with yours. And when you look at me I want you to keep looking. And when you touch me I want you to keep touching. But you never do. And I am practiced in this. So this time you walk me all the way home and it doesn't even get my hopes up. This time you sing to me at my doorstep and I do not flinch. Remind myself it is not your fault your kindness works like this. That this is just who you are. Because I will walk inside and peek out the glass for you to look back and you won't. And I will remember in the reflection that I am no one special to you. And I will fall out of love again, just like I have done a dozen times before with you. And I will go upstairs and take a shower humming the lyrics to the song you last played me and when I step out of the stream of water, my desire will be washed down the drain. And I will cease loving you until next time.

You taught me a softer way to love. Because I think you taught me there are some people we will never fall all the way out of love with. And that can be okay sometimes. As long as you are not destroying yourself with longing. Some things cannot be helped.

~ #3 : reflections on falling out of unrequited love with him

You have softened all my edges.

And I am afraid

That when you leave,

(As they all

Inevitably do)

I will be left

Defenseless

Against

The world.

~

I run my fingers over all the places my skin is pulled taunt.

"You don't have to, if you don't want to."

"I know."

But I want to want to.

For you.

There is not enough space

Between the lines

To hold

Everything

I failed to say.

~

I wonder often

If they will remember me

As anything other

Than what I helped them forget.

So I make promises

Knowing they will be broken,

In an attempt

To collect sins.

Hoping

In the end,

I might

Cash them in

To see you again.

~

I say

I forgive you

But you tell me

It means nothing

Because you do not

Forgive yourself.

Then what am I worth to you?

What am I worth to you?

For are you so staunch in your belief,

That you do not deserve

To be loved,

That you would shatter my heart

To prove yourself right?

~

I tell myself,

If I could not make you love me,

I will at least

Make you

Miss me.

But I do not hold it against you.

For if I left me

I would not

Long for my return

Either.

~

I title this chapter

Lessons on forgiving

Myself

When I deserve it

Least.

In it,

Sorry

Is not used

Once.

~another compilation of thoughts only beautiful out of context

When is the last time I brushed my teeth?

Looked at my father and did not think him weak

When is the last time I ate cereal for breakfast

Or went outside

Or held someone’s hand

When is the last time I cried

Really wept

Or knew why I was getting out of bed

When is the last time I saw you

When is the last time I loved

Looked at someone at did not simply think them beautiful

But wondered what it would be like for that beauty to choose me

When is the last time someone looked at me and I blushed

Not because I felt ashamed but because

Their gaze tasted like possibility

Like a honeymoon in library

When is the last time I felt

Excited

When is the last time I wanted

And was hurt by disappointment

When is the last time my heartbreak fissured the earth

Instead of simply burying me deeper in endless night

When is the last time I let someone take from me until I was empty

And sat with that hollow until I was rebirthed

When is the last time I was a child

When is the last time I was alone and felt lonely

When is the last time I wrote a poem?

It has been so long

So

Long

~ I have since been resuscitated

@the-anarchist-therapist

Best tag on this piece thus far, thank you <3

"payt bhar kay khalow"

I don't know much of my mother tongue, but what I do know has come from conversations with my grandmother. Usually about food.

"payt bhar kay khalow"

Which means "eat until your stomach is full". Or something like this. And in this way she feeds me. She sustains me. She tells me it is okay, to take until I am satisfied. Demands it with a stern voice and plate full of offering.

"payt bhar kay khalow"

I'm 15 when my uncle's gaze tells me I shouldn't have another slice of cake. My grandmother plates me a second piece with a overdone wink, shoving it into my palms even when I say no. Even when I want to take up less space. Even when I want to disappear. She does not ask. She is demanding I exist unapologetically.

"payt bhar kay khalow"

I am 17 when I have my four wisdom teeth removed. Spitting up blood in the sink, trying to replace my gauze, I come to the kitchen for a glass of water to down my antibiotic pills. She asks me if I want to eat. I roll my eyes. Try to manage through the cotton in my mouth, that I can't. Assuring her I won't starve in the hour it takes for the numbing to wear off. She dosen't sound convinced. She keeps trying to feed me. I think she does not trust the world, not to devour me while I heal.

"payt bhar kay khalow"

She is telling me to eat before I leave. What if there isn't food there? Eat. Eat, just in case. You'll be hungry. I don't want you to be hungry. I think she does not trust the world to sustain me. To give me what I need. I do not blame her. I do not trust it either.

"payt bhar kay khalow"

She always sends me home with tupperware full of leftovers, enough for at least three days, every time. Even when I tell her there is no room in my fridge. That there is no space at home. She makes me promise to ensure my mother eats. She tells me "layja". Take. So I do. I think she does not trust me to sustain myself. To take what I need. I do not blame her. I do not trust me either.

"payt bhar kay khalow"

She says eat. You look exactly like your mother. Your mother never ate. Your mother is looking thin. What she means is, my mother hasn't called her in months. Your mother never ate. What she means is your mother never took. What she needed. Your mother never ate. What she means is: your mother never ate my food. My cooking. She never let me sustain her.

But my mother eats. She takes. I know she does. But never until she is full. Just enough to survive. My mother tells me the story, of calling her my grandmother at a train station in the middle of the night when she was pregnant with me. She asked for spicy foods. Haleem. Pakora. She asked for food. She asked for other things. She asked to come home. And my grandmother told her no. My grandmother turned her away. My grandmother said: Take less. Be small. Be good. Your satiety is conditional. It comes after that of your husband. And his father. And your child. You eat last. You eat what is left.

"payt bhar kay khalow"

I think my mother never outgrew this lesson. I think, yes, my mother is looking thin. I think, yes, my mother never eats until she is full.

"payt bhar kay khalow"

I think my grandmother understands now. And so she tells me

"payt bhar kay khalow"

Eat until you are full, child. Take until you are satisfied, girl.

- There Is A Difference Between Taking And Taking Enough