#spilled tears

“i’m sorry if you touch my heart and find the scar tissue;

there used to be a thorn there

i’m sorry if the prick is like a diabetics reading; there used to be a thorn there.”

- words for us

As time passes by and memories start to fade, I’m beginning to see the red flags I missed when we first started talking. I used to make excuses for all the rude things you said, but I’m starting to realise it wasn’t okay at all. Maybe I truly am better off without you.

You’re still on my mind. I tend to remember the laughter we shared, but not the tears I wept every single night because you made me miserable. Why is it that every time we go through a heartbreak, we only remember the good parts?

I met you in february last year, and I had to leave you exactly twelve months later. These months were both the best, but also the worst months of my life. You made me feel so happy in the beginning, but most of the time you made me miserable. Leaving you was one of the hardest things I had to do. Sometimes I regret it, but I’m starting to be happy that for once, I chose myself.

When we were together, I forgot everything around us. You were all I saw. But now that you’re gone, it’s like I didn’t even live the past two years. You were all I knew.

My heart hurts and my eyes are sore from crying. And it hurts even more knowing you don’t care at all. It’s been a few months and you seem to be happier than ever, without me. What does that say about me?

Friday nights hurt the most. These nights, when all my friends are going out, I’m stuck crying in my bedroom because I can’t get over you. I spend my nights reliving all of our good times; our bodies intertwined in bed and the laughter we shared on our days out in the city. How did it get this far?

I want to get over you but at the same time I don’t. I don’t want to be over the memories we shared. I don’t want to forget the feeling I got when you looked at me with your bright eyes. I don’t want you to turn into a stranger again.

In movies they always show couples breaking up, the people going through a short period of heartbreak with sad songs and tears, and being over it a couple days later. They never show how long the heartbreak period is. I’ve been stuck in bed crying for two months now and it doesn’t seem to get any better. It’s not cute or edgy, it’s painful and it hurts like hell.

I’ve always wanted to see more of the world. You took my hand and showed me new places and took me on adventures. I went out of my comfort zone, but I always had you beside me to hold my hand. I will always be thankful for that, because I will never forget our adventures together.

They say we accept the love we think we deserve. Perhaps that’s the reason why I end up with a broken heart. Because maybe that’s what I think I deserve.

The two months without us talking felt like a century but I’m still right there where you left me. I’m still very much in love with you and I can’t picture my future without you. What am I to do now?

It’s not fair that he got to move on so quickly while I’m still stuck here trying to pick up the broken pieces he left me with.

‘And he’s painted over your mirrors

so his touch is in your eyes;

you try to purify yourself in water

but his fingers have muddied the supply—

you move out of the house

but his ghost is with you still;

I’ll learn to love my reflection, you repeat,

but you don’t think you will.’

'smeared mirrors,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1263

‘Oh, how loud are his trumpets!—

but how graceless is the tune;

his flags are painted in such bright colours,

but with so messy a stroke—’

'the pride of the fool,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1262

‘put a woman together, the dream-man said.

I took the pin

and rolled her skin thinner.

put the woman together, the dream-man said.

I weighed the brain and heart as one

but left the lungs and liver.

put the woman together, the dream-man said,

and I chose eyes for her;

now put her together, he repeated, voice irritated, now—

but I had no clue how to stitch her.’

'the woman together,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1261

‘she wants

that which she does not show;

she has no desire for that

will merely melt the iceberg—

dive deeper, dive deeper, the depths

scream and cry;

but that is where her monsters are

so explorers should beware the bite.’

'true love,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1260

‘I know the fire burns,

but is it truly hot? Truly bright?

Is it doomed to fade, entirely unknown,

in a dark and uncaring night?

Will these flickers of potential

turn out to be nothing after all—

what if I am nothing noteworthy?

what if I cannot climb higher? Will only fall?’

'potential,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1256

“well now I understand, how a mother’s heart

can boil into such a brutal cold;

I have thawed my rage, as I am without command;

weak as I am, I fall before your demands. I am subjected; I am told.

Hades too shall have my babe, should

this predatory Winter’s swollen stomach grow –

I give you my ring in hopes that it birth

no more— that the frozen rivers will start to flow.

Fill our fields with cornucopias of corn,

bright and golden as that which I have bequeathed –

how we shall chant your praises, then!

You shall wear our bounty as a victor’s wreath.

I fear for my love. I do not cry, nor rest, just rage;

believe truly, goddess, that I understand your pain –

for, if it were I that could grip the Sun, I would care

for no burned fingers:

I would starve you all— you too, fellow mother—

and starve you still again.”

‘a mother’s offering, designed to move demeter,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1252

‘my mind paints its strokes in the brightest of colours,

but my hands can only manage grey;

so I turn to the night, which is all black and white,

understanding that I would only do terrible injustice to the day.’

'sad songs,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1249