Open Letters, Writing

Open Letter to My Only Ex-Boyfriend

Hey, hardy boy.

It’s been a year and a half since our first ever serious break-up and over two years since we last saw each other face to face. All the drama that occurred for those seven years of my life has been terribly beautiful. I got hurt so so so so bad that I cut Starfish, the pillow that you gave me. Cut on the bed sheet my mother oh so dearly treasured. Cried my balls out in the middle of the night. I did that often though for the last 3-4 years of our relationship though.

But, the rush of emotions that you put me in was unthinkable and unparalleled. I guess that’s the magic the first one brings into your life. Everything is magnified like you’re just a vampire who just turned. Everyday, it felt as if you have just been bitten because everyday, the heavy breathing and the magnanimous rage is always present. I thought it would magnify exponentially over time and even more beautiful. Well, I believed it on some moments that we’ve been together. However, like most romances, I was forced to make myself stop for a moment and think of not us, but of myself.

In the deepest part of me, I thought we were so in love with each other that nothing, yes, absolutely nothing even distance can tear us away from each other’s arms. I wrote poems about us and I was starting to wander when my co-poets’ comments were like, ‘Ohh, unrequited love. Sorry, babe.’,Β when I thought it was romantic. I must have been blind. I must have been compelled by very self that we were okay. I can take being not treated as a real girlfriend. I can take the distance. But I am still a lady with a slowly dying heart and I cannot take both at the same time, every fucking day.

I guess I created my dream guy out of your persona base. I mean, you’re mysterious. You’re that guy whom every girl — and gay go gaga over when we were in high school. You were that witty classmate who could shut up his debate opponent with that one witty line. You write so good that I was swept off my feet when I read your love letters (which I have torn when we fought. You never wrote a single one ever since.) I always wanted a smart couple, conversing intelligently over everything and throwing I-am-wittier-than-you lines at each other. Just like in romantic comedies. I thought that was always cute. I love Oscar Wilde. I thought he writes very romantically. But when you happened, I thought,Β “Oscar Wilde was gay anyway.”

So, when my heart have grown weary and the fear of becoming sickly cold and forcefully contented in a wrong way began to snowball, I gathered all my might. I knew I had to break up with you years ago, but it is just a difficult thing to do. You had no fear of losing me and I cannot marry somebody who isn’t afraid of waking up without me by his side.

So much for the made-up love stories of you and me inside my head. I’m glad though thatΒ you are having the time of your life in a foreign country.

All right.Β We’re cool.

Always,

A

P.S. Remember to shower your patients with tender loving care, okay?

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Prose Poetry

Magpie Mondays {A Couch Too Big For One}

Red couch. From Magpie Mondays.

The dame has been in this scenario for quite some time,

quite forlorn,

unbounded freedom,

mostly unaccompanied.

The space seems too vast for her fragility,

it eats her up,

too vexing,

breeds out a deafening monotony.

Casually, someone would sit for tea,

and she smiles,

elevated happiness,

and temporary highs.

In her mind, she grips his wrist,

tightly,

forcefully,

lovingly.

But, she snaps back to reality,

he went

and sat

on another red couch.

And she casually brushed her way to the couch’s middle,

sipped her tea,

inhaled deeply,

and bit her tea-stained lip.

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