He tortured my already tortured heart . . .
My life and my love both succumbed upon hearing you whisper her name beneath the stars that witnessed our intimate love . . . or so I thought it was.
The calm breeze turned salty, and moments later, warm fluids streamed down my cheeks. For thirty-six months, I never heard you utter even a sigh of my name. Now, I realize that hearing you softly say her name was the revelation. The love I poured out to you was unrequited, and our loving affair was never real. It wasn't I whom you serenaded with Johnoy Danao's 'Right Time.' It wasn't me who hushed you to sleep when you stumbled home drunk. It wasn't me who taught you to play the piano, for I never existed in your life. At this moment, I understand why you called me different names instead of my real one—It's because you vowed at the altar to never speak another woman's name.
I pleaded with you behind closed doors to spare my heart from being torn, as I had painstakingly stitched it back together countless times after it was torn by others. Ironically, not only did you unstitch those stitches, but you also burned the fabric. I made you the center of my universe, but to you, I was never even a planet.
YOU ARE READING
the tortured poet's tortured love
PoetryDear Maia, Early morning bird songs, The poet, she'll never feel clean. Mon chéri, what a devastating beauty. When a poet falls in love, The weeping willow bears witness to it all. She will love, she will cry, she will love again, and she will cry...
