We all have our own ways of dealing with life. When something goes wrong there has to be something to ease the pain.
If I told you that breaking my heart would benefit me; would you understand?
I’ll explain.
One night I realized that my best work stems from the pain of a broken heart.
I was laying next to a boy who pretended to be a man and his words were like a hammer because they hit my heart in the same spot, harder and harder.
He liked to play games and I think he confused my heart strings for puppet strings because he had a way of making me do anything I could to make him happy.
I noticed the small things that he’d do, like how he didn’t like to wear a case on his phone. He was irresponsible. He held my heart in only one hand, not two. He didn’t care if it shattered in a million pieces.
He started to notice the small things that I’d do, like how I would nestle under the blanket, get out my phone, open my notes and just write. I don’t think he knew that this was that something to ease the pain.
I don’t think he knew that I was making poetry out of the fake love we would make and the dirt that filled his mouth. I planted something in that dirt and beautiful things grew.
He used to say, “Good morning, beautiful.” I didn’t even get my beauty rest, though. I was wide awake feeling out of place in his bed. Instead of wasting my time staring at the ceiling I would write instead.
If you opened my notes you’d never see one created before midnight because that’s when my feelings flood me and leak onto paper. I’d rather have words flood than tears.
Feelings come in waves and missing someone comes in waves, too. They pull you in, push you out; sometimes the wave crashes smoothly and sometimes you get blindsided and hit harder than ever.
Being able to compare things that hurt me to beautiful things makes writing so vivid.
I don’t think he knows that all of his hateful text messages gave me the inspiration for this piece.
I don’t think he knows that all of the nights he didn’t answer my drunken calls he gave me the motivation to sit down and write.
I don’t think he knows how much dirt he has provided to help all my beautiful things grow.
The boy that pretended to be a man will lay in his uninviting bed and maybe he will stumble upon this and he’ll read it through the shattered glass on his phone.
I know one thing, though.
Instead of seeing my talent for what it is worth he will pride himself in this. He will pretend to be a man and put his pride above his feelings. Boys will be boys.
If you’re reading this now I want to say thank you for all you have done.
Although I wish you the best, I hope that shattered glass pricks your finger when it’s late at night and you’re checking your phone to see if I’ve called.
We both know that won’t happen though, because I won’t be calling at all.
My bed is more inviting and I don’t need someone next to me to nestle up in a blanket and lay my feelings down on a piece of paper. This is something to ease the pain.
So, I’ve told you that breaking my heart would benefit me; do you understand?
