
she//her ♡ reader ♡ writer ♡ existential crisiser ♡
580 posts
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
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More Posts from Wisp-of-thought
And I will always love you like you
Are my first
And you will always love me like I
Fall somewhere inbetween
The beginning and
The end
And what can I do
But keep falling
Short
of forever
A memory that will not last
No matter how hard I try
To hurt you enough
For the scars to linger
Even after I am gone
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
And this is how it begins
When I rediscover the fear of being undeserving of the things I love
When I forget how to hold the poems on my tounge
When I let the words fester and wilt in my veins
Let the unsaid accumulate in the back of my throat
Dead passages stain my skin shades of neglected potential
When I promise myself I'll end
Or I'll begin
But even I do no trust who I have become
Oh the blood I have shed
Oh the youth I have lost amongst the grief
And for who?
In hopes a river of sorrow, a pathway of scars
Would lead love back
To the hollow parts of me
I carved out
To make room for forgiveness
I deny myself
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
How does a poet ever write about
The things that matter
I want to write about
My mother’s notebook
And my sister the dying star
I want to write about the grieving blackhole
And the beauty of supernova unbecoming
I want to write about
The library that swallowed the sun
And burned
And burned
And burned
I want to write about how every book
Has smelt slightly of smoke to me since then
I want to write about forgiveness
I want to write about my unravelling
The things I will never get back
I want to write about the teardrops of time
Filtering through my lashes
I want to write about the end
I want to write about the end
The end
But it is all so
Hopeless
So infinite
I try to write of it
And I sit with the galaxy in the pit of me
And I ache
The words die on my fingertips
The metaphors swell until my throat is
A rose stem
And I lay on the living room floor
Remembering how to breathe
Promise myself
I do not have to write the poem
Promise myself
I never have to write again
And the galaxy consumes itself
And there are no poems
There are no poems
About the things
That matter
~ don't call me a poet