It’s weird; I’ve become sort of numb, used to feeling your absence now. It will tap me on the shoulder on occasion, but it never truly, fully hits me. I think I’ve blocked it out. I think I stopped allowing myself to feel such things awhile ago. It’s been so gradual and subtle that it didn’t phase me. While I certainly don’t mind not wanting to break down more often than I should, I don’t enjoy this cold, empty numbness. It makes me uneasy. I don’t know. Maybe this is normal. I would normally ask you but I can’t quite do that anymore.
You are the worst thing to happen to my poetry. I always swore to myself to never become one who writes purely of “love” and feelings of the mush you see on the movies. Here I am, though. You have me posting poem after poem about you and how you make me feel at home and make me feel so alive. All of my angsty poems have flown out the window along with my mesmerizing metaphors and smooth syllables. My content is now so unoriginal, so expected, so…cliché. You may be the worst thing to happen to my poetry, but you are easily one of the best things to happen to me.
How are you? I hope you are happy. Not half-priced-happy, not kind-of-happy, not smile-for-the-cameras-happy. Genuine, whole hearted happy. You deserve that, and so do I. Things may have come off as selfish and purposely harmful, but that’s not how they were intended. I did things for my own happiness as well as yours; it wouldn’t have been fair to either of us to pretend. I was honest, as I promised I always would be. I put my well being and my happiness first for the first time, and it feels liberating. I know we no longer talk and this mess of the alphabet will never find you. I realize your sister despises me and your parents likely do as well. I just hope maybe this will find you in a dream and maybe you will know I never wished to hurt you; that’s the last thing I ever wanted. I hope you are happy.
Settle down. Slow down. Calm down. Please. Stop lying. Stop stealing from me. Stop hurting those you love. Stop pushing everyone away. Stop jumping to conclusions. Stop throwing yourself the world’s most extravagant pity party. Start breathing. Start looking in the mirror and looking at you, who you truly, really are. Start asking yourself if 6 year old you would be proud of who you’ve become. Start caring. Start loving. Start opening and letting people in. Start to become you, rather than this hurricane you’ve become.
You hurt me. Badly. Like, laying on my bedroom floor for two days solid, sobbing silently and just dying to feel nothing. You hurt me more than I knew you could. I thought I was already broken but you found that one whole piece of me left and shattered it. The part that hurt the most, is that you didn’t care. You watched me crumble and lay broken on the pavement, my porcelain pieces scattered everywhere. You stayed there and stood over me, watching. Staring. You would pick up a broken piece just to throw it back down to shatter it once more. It’s been so long and I try to convince myself that I am okay, I am over what happened, that I have forgiven you, that you won’t do it again. You always manage to prove me wrong. This is me telling you-no; telling myself that I am no longer letting you in my life, letting you hurt me again. I refuse to let you have that kind of hold on me. I deserve more than you and your fake apologies.
-SOME LETTERS ARE FICTIONALIZED-
Porcelain Prose 