I left my love back in February 2022, and three rotations later, it's still holding it hostage. I tried to offer the cut up pieces of my heart, laid neatly in a platter I carved out of my home, as a ransom but what it wanted wasn't something I lay bare for everyone who stops by my house to read the poems I scribbled on the walls with my wrong hand, because the right hand was still holding on to her lover- like it'll pull her back from drowning in the sea of despair— like they weren't the one who pushed her in the first place...
They say January takes the bullets for the shortcomings of February, but mine tries to prolong herself for as long as she can, so that I can stay in the safety of the hopelessness of beginnings for a little longer— so that I can get over February before it sinks its claws into my heart again to pull out the last remains of my broken heart that I was hiding from the world, to superglue it to myself this time, before someone else rips it out and shred it apart, piece by piece.
I believe forgiveness only comes in the form of edging and perhaps that's why I keep forgiving myself for falling for the glimmer over and over again before turning around and slapping myself until I'm disoriented from the pain— or pleasure, it is for you to decide— for offering my crushed heart to hope once again, only for it to take it gently from my hands, and crush it into a powder of fine reality, which it then blows right into my eyes, making me blind enough to fall for the glimmer again.
It's a cycle whose chain has come off three summers ago and I'm not taught how to fix it because apparently it's a man's job, but I can't find a man whose eyes will be fixed on the chain rather than under my skirt when he kneels down...
- Ish, wondering if they named February the month of love because they wanted it to end soon...
YOU ARE READING
Reverie
Poetry~ if not between the lines, where else can I find my peace? ~ Trigger warnings applied || Poetry Collection ||
