Sweetheart, you broke my bones and rugged my skin shed. I still look for beauty in all of the million tattered pieces left of me post the heart wrenching sessions of ignorance and agony. I still wonder how did it end up so fast, so miserable. You barbaric human being, never saw what ruins you were walking over, the roots you were ripping apart as you flawlessly stepped on each of my twigs and branches leaving me half dead. Half alive.
It was then, that I understood that scars bleed. And that pain savagely tears through your chest. There's nothing romantic about pain. Nothing in the least. Tears aren't fancy.
When you reach out for a hand and there's none in the eternal dark, you don't feel great. Hurt consumes you. And your bone marrow turns to dust that you wish to wash off. Your heart seems like an organ which floats too heavy inside the endless depths of your soul which has a million voids from the night you told me it was a joke. A goddam joke.
All those shows that one of those channels played each Saturday morning where this bad guy would put his charms around a woman and leave her in the middle of nowhere to die. My life resembles those shows so much with the exception of a good guy saving me in the end. You were my moon each night when the terrace seemed too far, my light when I couldn't switch on the tube lights. I saw beauty in your wounds and assumed you bled from mine. You told me of trust and vows. Of heavens and orchids. But all those orchids seem to rot in the backyard alongside all your promises.
All my life I craved hurt. I wanted to be left so broken that it would require some super powers to get back up and even walk. I wanted to breathe pain and live my life so forlorn that even my own soul would tremble to hold me back, let aside your hand.
But now that it has all turned to reality I see no charm in the heart trying to pump away all the aching emotions that you promised to house in you. You promised me a home and left me homeless. Now there's going to be winter forever while none of my parts are going to be covered by the blanket of hope. There will be no warmth of your skin rubbing against mine. None of my ideas of how pain would turn to rubies work out today. None of them seem to stay honest to their creator. I carved my name onto the little piece of me that you took away. Now each time I stand in front of the mirror, it mocks at me. For I have no identity except the one that is lost. The one that once was. I look at it and try to be strong and tell it not break down but it won't listen. I fall apart into a million stars each night in front of this mirror while none of these stars are bright enough to guide me home to you. You're gone. And pain isn't beauty anymore. Hurt isn't romantic. And the scars are not shallow, but skin-deep that cut each of my mortal organs a little more.
But you won't care.
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