Collection

Aniqua.

The flip side to all the sappy love poems you just read is that after she called it quits: I went into a very, very, very deep depression and wrote the poems you're about to read.

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Break. (12/10/18)

Forty-three hours you've been gone.

Which means I have been crying for forty-three hours.

Which means I have been pleading with the skies and the stars and the universe for forty-three fucking hours.

I am hurting. More than I have ever fucking hurt in my life and it will not stop.

It does not stop.

There are no breaks, no reprieves, not a single moment in forty-three fucking hours where I drew a breath that did not hurt every cell in my body.

I have been crying, screaming, raging and begging the universe to make you take it back.

This is not skin deep.

This hurt is deeper than skin, deeper than muscle, deeper than bone.

This has tainted the very core of who I am and I do not want to be anything without you.

I can't do this.

I can't...live, cannot breathe, cannot exist, cannot function without you and stars above I don't want to.

Don't see a reason why I should fucking have to.

We were...I thought we were happy.

Stupid, I realize now.

I thought we were happy and now I am here.

Alone. Again.

I thought we were happy and now I am here.

Broken and shattered and sobbing every twenty fucking seconds because you weren't forced away.

You left.

I have never wanted someone to stay so much, have never been ready to throw myself in the crossfire if it meant keeping them by my side.

But you just...left.

And I want to rip open the earth, want to pour the magma into fucking space and throw this hollowed-out planet like a football.

I want to crack open the sky, let it rain fire blood and ash so that everyone can see how I feel.

So that people will stop telling me I am overreacting, that I am being dramatic, that you are not worth this.

Because I am not and you are.

If I was the best thing to ever happen to you, what the fuck do you think you were to me?

I am fucking lost.

I feel like I am in the eye of a hurrricane, watching numbly as everything I love crumbles to pieces but I do not care, do not have the energy the drive the motivation to do anything but cry.

And cry.

And cry.

I feel like I could drown the world in all these tears.

But what does it fucking matter?

It's not like you care.

It's not like anyone has ever actually fucking cared.

I am and have always been a stepping stone, the step that helps you get to where you actually want to be.

And I am so fucking tired.