Tears pour down my face like Autumn rain, my heart bleeds profusely from the wounds you inflicted within me.
Distraught, thoughts of all the other women that climbed ontop of you spin through my mind like a carousel. All the women who were inbetween the arms I called a home, all the women underneath the body I called a lover.
You scold at me to stop, but I can’t escape what could of been.
Your rebuke does not sting like your dishonesty, but I know I am not insane nor am I paranoid.
I am just sick, sick to death of being hopelessly in love with you.
And just like that I was thrown away and forgotten.
Nostalgia is seldom cradled within these arms. Torment by bittersweet memories of the past have ceased. Scars of where I had bled love for the undeserving one are scattered across my body like landmarks. Landmarks made beautiful from the love others have poured generously back into me. I have healed with only the ache ignited by laughter in my chest, a particular blissful ache I have missed.
These lungs no longer collapse on themselves to expel a howl for an overvalued presence that offers nothing but inadequate love and bargained affection.
I have fallen in love again, fallen in love with life. Fallen in love with the opportunities it is offering me in generous handfuls that I was previously too oblivious to appreciate. An antidote of patience and hope to the resentful poison that had once thrived inside of me. It is over, this self-battling war is done. I am free. – S. Alaa