A Poet’s Fallout
Someday, I will forget about you. Someday you won’t fill my head with gas lit thoughts and delusions. I say this to myself to keep myself sane. These sleepless nights in which I try to rationalize your actions have been wearing me down. You can’t rationalize that which is irrational. I fell for you for your lies and deceit, but I can’t deny that I also fell for you because you were a poet. Even typing that now makes me so angry – like I’m offending my own people. But no matter how much denial I put in place, you are still a poet. Like me. Artists come from tragedy. And both of our tragedies have prevented us from any connection together. How tragic. How typical of fucking poets. And yet I sit here, surprised that it didn’t work out. How foolish can I be? Bringing someone back into my life from my past is such a foolish thing to do. Although I give myself grace for not knowing what could not have been known, I can’t help but sit here and think: I should have fucking known. I should have fucking known.
I’ve been fighting to get you out of my thoughts and actions for the past four days, but I can’t help but wonder if you're writing about me. And if you are, is in a self-righteous, sympathetic-for-me type of way or a fuck you, you’re such a bitch type of way. I will never know. I will only have my side. I don’t dare to reach out to you and I certainly hope you aren’t stalking me on my social media. Nevertheless, the poet in me hopes you’re thinking of me. I hope you are drowning as much as I am. It’s only fair.
My therapist says soon, I will have sympathy for you. I will “feel sorry” for you. And eventually, yes, but I don’t see that future yet. Right now, all I have is that I understand a part of you. Not full, but partly. I understand you have your own trauma and your own tragedies. I understand that you are just a child like me. I understand you are navigating the world the best you can and I am just a blip of misfortune and uncomfortable circumstances for you, you have your own life after all. But that last sentence is untrue, because I do not know what you think. But I would give a lot to know what you’re thinking right now. Are you mad at me? Do you feel sorry for me? Do you understand where I was coming from? I will never know. I can’t reach out to you. I can’t do that to my soul. I hope you heal while I heal, but I hope I never let someone like you into my heart again.