the failings of a surgically healed heart | a collection

2 | la petite mort 'the little death'

Note: Because I'm pretty sure some will come across this poem without going back to read introduction and inspiration page for extra context I'll say it hear so there is little confusion.

This poem is not meant in anyway shape or form ROMANTICISE DEATH OR SUICIDE

Rather it's a poem about my, at times, paralysing fear of dying - something I was grappling with at the time of writing this and was a side effect of my rehabilitation time after surgery.

(I'm better now - both physically and mentally- though you'll be happy to know).

~

death, our romance is a tumultuous/toxic one
you and i, are
star-crossed lovers:
yet to meet. destined for doom.
always so close–

the first time, we almost met was in the year 2003:
i was dying
with no more than a fortnight to go,
i was in ireland
with my depressed and pregnant mother,
i was two years old.
though i cannot remember much of this almost encounter,
i would like to think;
you didn't take (advantage of) me
because of how perverted it would seem years later

i do not recall the next few times we brushed paths,
(i am a terrible lover i know)
that is until the surgery–
or rather the moments leading up to then;
the 'ellipsis'
of our will-they, won't-they
love affair.

towards the end of summer holidays in the year
2016, i experienced atrial fibrillation
for the first time–
in other words,
my heart rhythm was woefully irregular
(i didn't expect heart-break to be so literal)

i spent, much of that day in hospital–
unconscious.
the doctors shocked my heart into a normal rhythm
and i woke up hours later
not knowing how long i'd been there;
nor where i was,
exactly

i'd like to remember this occasion as the
first time we made love
you could have taken me completely,
and i would have been none the wiser,
that would have been that,
how strange to reflect on now,
when i am not much older

the next moment, before the surgery
but after it had been officially scheduled,
was somewhere towards the end of october and beginning of november
once again my heart
fell into an irregular rhythm; but unlike last time
the doctors did not shock it back to normal
something about clots forming.
something about it being likely i
–a sixteen year old–
would have a stroke;
all i heard was, they were going to leave me to wallow in this pain,
death, it was then,
i had never desired you more.

the next four days i lay in that hospital bed:
vomited everything i ate,
lost 3kg,
cried a lot,
felt my liver inflame–
this my attempt at wearing the blanket
you left me after that first time
we slept together

the final moment, was the evening before the surgery,
once again regular became irregular,
once i again i was left to wallow in my pain and misery
once again all i wanted was you–

the surgery commenced, and i
once a child
now a woman
who had a flirted with death
more times than it would please anyone,
and you–
an eternal spirit who kept reminding me to be patient –

gave new meaning
to the phrase 'la petite mort'
for i died,
again and again and again
the sex; not romantic, but rushed
brimming with lust–

after the surgery,
we almost encountered many more times but it was
never the same,
sometimes i would be walking along a corridor in ICU
and then feel your cold breath
against my gaunt frame.
sometimes it was even more subtle;
the drowning sensation in my lungs. or the flutter in my heart.

for the most part however, my heart and i
were simply trying to heal
trying to repair the damage,
you and i had done to it –
to each other

even after the physical healing,
then came the bout of depression that i had not anticipated
you see, the depression did not make me suicidal
(i am too scared to kill myself)

despite how often
i desired you in those moments,
it just lead to self-hatred
i tried cure it by filling
a, now, metaphorical hole in my heart;

with silly white boys who didn't know themselves
(and cared even less to know me);
with sleep
(the exhausted kind not the romantic kind);
with church
(which made me feel sick and anxious to my core)

in the end. none of it worked.
they were all distractions.

in the end. death, you were not the one who broke my heart.

in the end. what had broken me was the fact:
i could have succumb to you, and
would have been none the wiser
how strange to reflect on, now when
i am not much older–

yet, feel i have aged a lifetime.

- death, we will meet when you are good and ready for i will never be

--

Special shoutout to today goes out to: vyomantara-

I see you boo always liking my poetry and shit and I super duper appreciate it I hope you've been enjoying my works so far and that you also enjoy this one.

Expect a usual update on Friday my doods.