From a foolish reality
To a shady identity
Comes an irregularity of needs
A trapped soul that bleeds
Her lips made her belong
To a world considered as wrong
Is it time to start to pray
And ask God why does she feel this way
Trying to grasp how to be free
Asking if denial is the key
The journey of confusion began
Oh how she wish she was superman
I must confess, I don’t always listen to you.
Sometimes when you talk, your words merge into a melody that dances towards me like the wafts of aroma from freshly brewed coffee. My brain registers the words passively, falling into a drunken stupor at the sound of your voice.
My eyes fixate on your lips. On the flicks of your tongue hidden behind them. On the flashes of your teeth. On the dimples that form at the corners of your mouth as you smile, as the tune that is your voice is propelled forward between your lips.
I want to tell your lips stories. I want to whisper tales to them in hushed, soft spoken words. I want to tell them that every shape they form is burned onto my retinas. I want to show them new shapes they could form.
Your voice stops now, ending on a higher note, a question mark. The melody pauses. My brain scrambles to come back to attention, to pull itself out of its dazed state of mesmerization. It feels like being pulled out of a deep and delightful dream, reluctant to leave.
It feels like it stretches over hours, but in reality it takes but a second for me to refocus, and respond appropriately based on the notetaking my brain has done of what you’re saying.
I smile all of a sudden, and you ask me why. Because you have no idea what I’m thinking, I say. No idea at all, my friend. Then tell me, you urge.
I hope, someday.
We broke up at the end of summer 2016. And we really broke up at the start of March 2017.
I went to therapy about the breakup. I spoke to friends. I went out and tried to meet new people. I checked all the boxes of post-breakup healing. But no one told me I’d have to break up with that version of myself. The self that I had been for 6 years.
The self that I no longer am.
I’m not the person who checks the prices of different brands of pickles at the supermarket anymore, because I don’t eat pickles. I’m not someone who comes home to cook for two and makes sure to keep it animal-product free. I’m not a person saving for a trip to New York that was always in our books; there’s only my book now.
I am someone who has empty walls. I only noticed when a friend was over and asked me how come my walls were so bare. I moved in to this flat 3 months ago, and my walls are still pristine white. I’m not a person who has decorated walls anymore. I’m someone who has no idea what to put on her walls. (I put up pictures today, maybe the emotions will follow the motions).
The old version of me had dreams and hopes and plans sized for two. I am not her anymore. And I think that’s the hardest part of the break-up. Breaking up with myself; that self. And becoming someone new.
And maybe the worst part of it is that in the moments that I feel I miss her, when I really think about it, I don’t. I miss me. I miss the me that had it figured out. That was a rock. That had a purpose. I miss the me that was the smile on someone’s face.