letters after dark | poetry book 3

diary

i look back at my small diary. black with tints of blue here and there. i wish i didn't put too much blue. i held my breath as i opened the diary. pandora's box is now open and i could see the words fly out like music notes and melodies. bittersweet, painful, melancholic, and so hopeful in the end, only for it to be a crushing reality. papers filled with handwriting i no longer do, it felt like i was seeing myself write the words that broke my heart. same demise, all promises filled with lies. i've seen this film before and i didn't like ending. page after page was a scream for everything to stop. every word was a cry for help. my own doing, my own death. to feel like i was thrown a mirror and kneeling down on the shards and picking up every piece and slicing my own skin, putting powder and hurt in my eyes till it shed tears and bled. i wasted years thinking it was all i was and i wasn't worthy of genuine love from anyone else and i had accepted i was made to be a man's toy and plaything. a man's pleasure and a man's go to when he couldn't with his main. i accepted the fact that i was always second with everything else and that i should never expect that a man would put me first. 

heartbroken and shattered like the mirror i was kneeling on, i prayed to anyone that could hear me from the heavens that they just take my life away and put my misery to an end. flip after flip of pages made me realize that i was too kind even when i was hurting. i was too understanding. despite me being used, lied on, and cheated on, i remained kind and understanding. too much, apparently. even before love was actually present, my heart was already devoid of multiple emotions enclosed in the language of love. i had already given up with a lot of emotions and corners of my heart were already vacant and empty. and by the end, it was almost empty. fewer and fewer words were written, as if there isn't anymore obvious signs that i had given up. it's empty; the words and the promises. empty shells of promises of change and never doing it again is meaningless to me. he could've wrote me a novel and kneel before me now, but i wouldn't bat an eye. unless i see the change myself, i won't be believing words alone now.