I am scared to let anyone touch me.
I am scared to let anything touch me.
I am scared because I can’t remember anymore
what I buried under these layers of denial.
I have been staring at this piece of paper forever.
I can’t pick up the pen and write a single line.
Maybe I’ve lost my way with words.
Maybe I just lost my feelings for you.
Maybe you left my system after all those years
of writing only about my memories of you.
The emptiness of this room whispers
to me with the same pain you had in your voice:
“Sometimes love just isn’t enough”
With those words you made the poetess
in me want to set on fire all of the poems she wrote.
If not love, then what?
I always believed happiness wouldn’t give me
a thing to write about but then I meet you and realized
that every movement of your imperfect being is a
poem waiting to be engraved on my skin
The reason why you felt so loved around her
is because she wanted to feel it to but you
were to selfish to see other than your own needs.
It doesn’t really hurt anymore. It hasn’t in a while.
Sometimes the memories float through my
mind and make me shiver but it doesn’t
hurt anymore. It hasn’t in a while. Sometimes
I miss you before closing my sleepy eyes and
I feel like I can feel your touch but it doesn’t
hurt anymore. It hasn’t in a while.
Years and years ago people waited for the
pain to go away, for the heart to heal and then
they were alright, but now it’s hard to clean one’s
life from a former lover’s presence. You are
virtually reminding me that you’re not mine but it
doesn’t hurt anymore. It hasn’t in a while.
To hell with pain, I can deal with that but I
can’t deal with not being able to escape your
eyes and move on with my life. You are always looking
at me from pictures, reminding me of what we
had and even thought it doesn’t hurt anymore,
and it hasn’t in a while, I’m still sitting here waiting
for your presence to go offline.
I’m waiting for your name to stop being on the top
of my messenger contacts. I’m waiting for my hand
to stop clicking your name wanting to write something.
I’m waiting for Instagram stories to stop telling me
where you are. I’m waiting for the day I’ll stop opening
them. I’m waiting for our pictures to disappear from
my gallery. I’m waiting for a day I’ll be strong enough
to delete them like you deleted me.
But it doesn’t really hurt anymore. It hasn’t in a while.