One: the day you told me my smile doesn’t melt your fears anymore, and that my arms don’t bring you enough warmth in the coldest of your nights, my soul knew that good bye was not too far away. But my heart rejected it and even days after you said goodbye I still stood outside my front door hoping to see the headlights of your car. I stood by my phone waiting for that phone call that will say, “boo-yah! I got you!”. And on Saturday nights, I still ironed your shirts for you, crawled into your favourite t-shirt and lay on your side of the bed waiting for you to come home so you could tickle me out of it like you always did.

Two: the day I saw you with her, my inner, usually tamed tigress, raged within its cage. It screamed out obscenities even God never knew existed. It tore through its iron cage fuelled by the one emotion I had failed to master, anger. It took you no time at all to lose every trace of me. Did I not love you enough? Was my heart not as beautiful naked as when it was clothed? Were you disappointed by the fact that i bled my love into poetry that I failed to share with you?

Three: fuck my angry thoughts. Let’s make a deal instead. If you come back, I promise to lose every trace of me into her. I promise to be her. See I’m already wearing my hair the way she does. And last week, last week, I kinda sorta kept bumping into her at the mall…and stuff. And so I know what perfume she wears, what kind of clothes she likes, her favourite designer and well…how many sugars she puts in her tea. I promise I was not stalking her…just doing some preliminary research. If this doesn’t show you how serious I am, then I am proud to announce that next week I have an appointment with a surgeon. I happen to know her breast size is about 3 times mine. I’d tell you the exact size but I fear you will think I am stalking her…which I’m not. Just preliminary research. All I’m saying is if you come back, there’ll be no more me. Just her.

Four: my knees have have collected dust from hours of kneeling into prayers that echo through the emptiness of my rooms but bring no answers or sense of comfort. I’ve been carving your name onto unlit skies hoping with every cut some kind of light will shine my way. I’ve been walking through memory lane, only the path is now riddled with thorns and broken glass and so it hurts when I walk. Dear lover, between my future and my past is a hole where my present should be.

Five: I met a boy recently. He is an artist, like me. Only where I paint with words, he uses paint brushes. He’s been doing lots of portraits of me. And after I told him about how you had asked for my heart and how you had treated it so carelessly after I gave it to you, his next painting of me had a hole on the left side of the chest. He said he had stolen my heart and taken it for fixing. I don’t know if I should trust him.

this was initially titled “The five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance”



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