You ripped me apart
until the shards of my heart
lost their way
to be whole again.
For so long,
I’ve tried to fix myself
and normalize everything
while living
in a caricature of a broken love
and in a pad of shattered words,
but you know what,
my foolishness
still messes
and still misses your lies
and every dirty thing
that made me fall
in love with you .
My late night thoughts
still flood my head
with artworks
that portray your face,
and the paper
of my shattered poetry
still screams
the sound of your name
between the spaces
reserved for your return.
Maybe I’m stupid enough
to still wish
for you to find
your way back to me.
Maybe I’m dumb enough
to still want
to have a taste
of the storm
that once destroyed me.
I want to find
the self I lost
the moment
you found your way
away from me,
but my head
is still coming back
to the memories
that make me
lose myself
a little more.
I want to forget
every little thing
about us,
because these
little things hurt me the most.
I want to stop
writing you
countless poems;
but then again,
all my poems
are still named after you,
all my words
still long for you,
because darling,
you are still my poetry,
you are still my favorite kind of tragedy,
and I still can't get over you.