Something Mending -- VOL 1

39

Him. July, 26.

There are two people, who have my heart, one old, one new. They should be gone, they shouldn't still haunt my mind, I shouldn't have to hold myself in place from reaching out to them, I shouldn't have to.

Him, he should be gone. I have tried to push him away, tried the art of self sabotage, an action I have perfectly mastered. I tried everything, running away, coward who? Tried the silent treatment, tried repression, which is most effective, and let's not forget the act of reminding myself all the million ways I could get hurt, wrecked, and broken.

I did everything, one conversation with my friends, and he is there again, in my head, when I close my eyes, when I do everything, he's there, a constant reminder of something I am yet to identify.

Him.

I wonder why he has lasted this long, it's been almost two years and he's still here, in my head, my mind, my heart. That is actually one of the reasons I let him go, well, tried to let him go, because I wasn't sure of myself, of these self encompassing feelings, do you know what it's like to doubt yourself, to be a constant ridicule, an inside joke only you know.

How does it feel to meet someone who is just like you are, in more ways than one, someone whose image is like looking into a mirror, someone who makes you feel like you were born with a hole in your heart, if not, why then do you feel so much, someone who makes you write poetry like this.

Someone who taints your writings with pain -- Oh wait, for me, my works have always been dominated by pain, he's just intensified it.

Perhaps this is the kind of woman I am, the kind that loves a man with all her heart -- stupid, I know, but stay with me --, who writes amazing poetry for him, for anyone she loves, and is left behind by them. Is this the kind of person I am, born with a hole in the heart -- a metaphorical one in Jesus' name -- cursed to feel everything, to wander, to stray, to bleed.

The sad part is he, he is not her, these are just a fraction of what I felt and still feel for him, however, what I feel for her, now that is a big hole I don't want to fall inside.

It's maddening, these feelings that looks like love, that taste like love. It's stolen gazes and clashing looks. It's staring at him, with the urge to lay on his chest. It's looking at him in public and wondering if it'll be insane to kiss in front of our friends -- yes, it would be insane, Toyosi.

It's remembering the taste of his lips, the feel of his tongue, the way his teeth scraps through my lips, the way my heart dances irritably at his sight, the way I look for him in every crowd, the way I allocate every sweet words in books to him, the way my heart sings - you, you, you at his sight.

The way his scent has clung to my skin, the way I press my back against a wall, and imagine, God, I imagine. The way I bury my face in the pillow, stupidly trying to hold his scent, the way he makes me come undone, the way he unnerves me, undoes me.

The way I am listening to Omah Lay's Boy Alone deluxe as I write this, which should be enough proof that this boy has gbe mi tra ba ye, how annoying.