The Aftermath,
The beating hearts,
The restricted arms
The concealed hearts.
This is the Aftermath,
This is what the battle left,
This is the remnants,
The ones that fell apart.
It's all about picking it up,
Picking every piece up,
The Aftermath of an apocalypse,
The ashes of who I used to be.
Let me tell you what the Aftermath is, what it entails. The Aftermath is having gists to tell, and only realizing they are gone. The Aftermath is rolling on the bed to an empty side, and he's not there. The Aftermath is picking the phone, and calling, only to realize you can no longer call, you can no longer share.
The Aftermath?, It is the worse.
It's cooking noodles for two, and realizing it's just you. It is discovering a good book, and the inability to share.
The Aftermath is standing on a place you used to dance. It is breaking on a mountain you used to climb. It is the loneliness that has become a second nature. It is the constricted throat and the blurred eyes. The Aftermath is worse than a panic attack, it is greater than a breakdown.
The Aftermath squeezes your lungs, makes you unable to breath. It steals away your art, and leaves you with a dying heart. The Aftermath mocks you, it unsettles you, it discomforts you, it laughs at you. The Aftermath is a sadness at a love lost. It is the restrictions at trying again, it is fear of dying, all over again. The Aftermath is the deliberate loneliness. It is the fleeing. It is the rejecting.
The Aftermath is a mocking breakdown when you think you've got it together. It is always there, every fucking time. It creeps on you at your best, at that moment you think you have it together. The Aftermath lets you know you don't.
It is simply the days after. Simply the says you cry in your closet. The days you rage at yourself for being weak. The days you feel, so much, you deem it as weakness. Those days are the Aftermath, the days you remember her, and you don't smile, instead you bleed.
The Aftermath -- simply means after the catastrophe, the apocalypse, the ruination, the death.
The Aftermath stings, it bites, it bleeds over and over again. It is a scar that can't close, it never does, it's an open wound. Some people will always be an open wound, no matter how many years pass, the wound will always be sore.
The Aftermath might end, it will end, but before it does, it will take blood, bone, flesh and every breath.
3:40 pm.
Feb, 4, 2022.
YOU ARE READING
Something Mending -- VOL 1
PoetryOf Breaking hearts, young love, betrayal and pain. Of Mending hearts, familiar pain, unexpected hurt and aftermath. Of Healing hearts, underated heartache, pain and acceptance. Of Love, Love that is as deep sea. Pain, that knows no bounds. Strength...
