in the summer of last year
(before i fell into a pit of depression)
i wanted to fall in love.
not for an authentic reason,
but for research purposes.
//
this an experiment; a primary source where i
collect data and draw conclusions
for a manuscript i was working on at the time –
thought if i became my art
(a method writer, if you will)
my commitment would show in my craft
//
(spoiler alert: i never finished the manuscript)
//
that summer,
was one of moods swings and
a blooming misery in my gut.
//
that summer,
we drank so much diet lemonade
we were sure we'd get cancer
because of how cheap it was.
//
that summer,
we lost one friend
to the woes of less than perfect exams results;
gained another one and a half
because of the unforetold allure of hill climbing
of which my heart condition and my father,
selfish as usual,
did not let me be a part of.
//
that summer,
my best friend tried to convince herself
she didn't like her now boyfriend
because she couldn't face rejection
//
that summer,
i did face rejection
from the half a friend we gained
told him i liked him even though i didn't
only for him to respond: "i was hot"
but didn't he like me that way
listed off a bunch a reasons it wouldn't work,
his catholic mother,
my personality, etc.
//
yet still, we sexted for longest week of my life,
because he still wanted my body
and i mistook that to mean he wanted me
rubbed his leg until he was hard and
later had him tell me how jerked off (twice) as a result,
lied about my own masturbation habits
so he didn't feel awkward –
//
did not feel the need to climax until
i called the whole thing off
//
that summer i learnt every boy is a fuckboy -
especially the "nice" ones.
//
that summer i learnt for girls like me
love works best as a hypothesis
//
that summer,
i learnt you can't force someone to love you
and you can't force yourself to love someone else.
//
that summer,
the smallest part of me that was still a hopeless romantic
was stomped out
like the ghost of a (camp)fire.
//
and when it came time for autumn:
i was the most miserable i had ever been and
still without a finished manuscript.
- conclusion: real life is far more disappointing than fiction could ever imagine
--
apologies for the delayed update i had to reshuffled the structure of the this poem in some parts.
moreover, this has to be one of my favourite poems I've written ever and i truly hope all of you enjoy it too
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the failings of a surgically healed heart | a collection
شِعر「 WATTYS 2019 WINNER 」 the failings of a surgically healed heart, is a series of autobiographical poems arranged into six thematic parts to form a collection which examines the idea of the collective and how that informs individual. i. family an exp...