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A broken heart turned to beautiful poetry.


When you get accustomed to something, that thing becomes a drug- you get addicted. You not only want it, but you feel like you need it. A change or alter in routine will not be acceptable. That'd be like quitting the addictive drug, cold-turkey. After five years, half a decade, one thousand, eight hundred, and twenty-five days of the same routine with someone, changing it seems disastrous. You think to yourself that you'll never make it out alive and escape from the daily nightmare. The thought of losing the only person that's been here for you for so long- the thought of you losing the only boy that knows all of your secrets- the thought of the only boy you've ever loved & would do anything for, leaving you… that would mess you up more than any drug ever could. You've been addicted to many things in life, and he's been your rehab for it all. He's been your comfort zone, happy place, and punching bag. Your rehab has abandoned you. After five years, half a decade, one thousand, eight hundred, and twenty-five days of him constantly comforting and loving you, you have no one else it seems.

You had grown a routine with the drug you claim as your own. you would turn over and click the little white square on the bottom of your iPhone to read his name appear. seeing it would put a smile on your half asleep face, and you'd squint your eyes to read "good morning, beautiful. I hope you slept well and have a good day." After a while, you start to get used to it. You form the habit of seeing his name on your yellow phone when you wake up. One day, you realize you're falling out of habit with him. He starts to text you "hey" at 11:08 a.m. when you're in psychology. You pick up on his responses shortening and within longer periods, but that's better than losing him. You deal with it for a while, but it gets as if he doesn't care. You talk to him throughout the day as you always have, but his responses are decreasing in words. His persistence in keeping the conversation going has altered to one to two word responses. His sweet paragraphs, random compliments, and the feeling of lust has stopped. His old "goodnight, beautiful. sweet dreams. I'll see you tomorrow," has ceased. If he responds now, it's "I'm sleepy" or "I'm going to sleep" to indicate that he won't respond anymore. After so many years of the good morning and goodnight wishes, you wonder why it's changing and what has changed beyond return. Your drug is slipping away, and you're getting smaller and smaller doses each day.

This is now consuming you. you're like a desert desperate for rain. This routine is changing like the rug unknowingly being yanked from underneath your feet. When you fall, you fall hard. You're sitting in your room, suffering comfortably by yourself. It's the head between your knees and mascara intertwined with tears splashing on your pillow kind of suffering. The same pillow you're falling apart on is the pillow you used to sleepily smile on when you would see his name on your phone. The same pillow that you and him shared kisses on previous weeks before. This is how you cope. You cope by crying in your room, alone and suffering. Your pen is glued to the paper, and you're desperately trying to write the pain of the drug away like wind is blowing smoke out of a chimney. He knew how you suffered and coped with the things that hurt you. He knew how you think human anatomy and constellations are God's beautiful and miraculous creation. He knew the way you sucked at English, and he stayed up listening to you cry because of stress many nights. He knew the way you like herbal tea, and the way you sleep in bed. He knew you and everything about you, but what he doesn't know, is the darkness that consumes you now.

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This article has not been reviewed by Odyssey HQ and solely reflects the ideas and opinions of the creator.

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