“I don’t believe in love at first sight,” you told me, “but, our souls connected the first few seconds we met. I saw you from across the room, this gorgeous blonde girl dressed in some crazy outfit standing there like an Amazonian goddess — and then I approached you — I teased you. You handled your own, you were unlike any woman I’d ever met, a fast-talking spitfire, who put me in my place.”
Those were the words you chose to leave me with: a gut-wrenching oxymoron — you told me I was beautiful but I’ve never felt more unattractive. You praised my sharp tongue but in this moment, all witticisms escaped me. What a horrible memory to let linger in the midst of a goodbye: the night we met.
A memory that held my heart so closely it felt like a burning bundle of maggots swallowed my atria, chewing cavities and holes into more empty holes. Because that’s what I am now: an abyss, within an abyss, void of repletion – when did I start to lose myself in the idea of us? When did you start to runaway?
After a breakup we want to solve the case of our broken hearts; like derisory film noir detectives, we start spewing jolted theories from the sides of our mouths; we fastidiously investigate what went wrong, asking everyone around us for advice, but mainly, we try and answer the same hard-hitting questions: Why is it so easy to walk away from me?
Why is it that when I think of you, my heart aches at the thought of how extraordinary we could be together? Why can’t I sleep without your arms around me? Is it because I’m crazy, is it because I’m a masochist, is it because I saw a future with someone for the first time in my life? Maybe it’s because I am human and I finally met another human who made life a little messier.
Maybe, I love the chaos that you bring. As a seasoned expert in heartbreak misdemeanors, I am certain of one thing: no one is easy to walk away from. You are not easy to walk away from. I am NOT easy to walk away from. In fact, the only thing abandoned that Wednesday evening in the strange autumn heat, was you and your happiness. You were willing to leave behind a woman who challenged you, who supported you through your creative drought, who remained faithful even when you were not, all because you were confused.
“This is getting too serious,” you told me, “I can’t do this, I can’t hurt you. I can’t look into those big brown eyes and hurt you. I am afraid I can never love as much as you do.” Wait. Since when did loving too much become a crime? Seriously? What is wrong with this generation?
Our relationship was not any more serious than the night we first met. After all, “our souls touched,” and that’s a pretty big deal, right? The truth is, you were becoming more attached, you saw that I was special, you saw that I wasn’t going to abandon you just like everyone else.
So please don’t try and turn it around. Please don’t tell me that it’s I who feels too much. I see the way you look at me, your pupils stick to every layer of my skin. Your grey eyes center on me; they hurt when I hurt, they smile when I smile. Your pining gaze mirrors your heart and frightens you — it doesn’t frighten me. I want to stare into your soul until your subconscious transforms into a sword to fight the demons that keep you up at night.
I am proud that I love, that I give my heart without limit. And though there will be many women after me, there will be no woman like me. One day this will hit you, maybe even sooner than you imagined — but it will be too late.
Sometimes the only way to solve a broken heart is to remember that you can’t – at least not right away. It’s all too soon, too fragile. My words want you and then they condemn you, my head pretends to be buried in work whilst my pulse is buried in yours — even when we flatline, I crave resuscitation. Nothing makes sense, not even this manifesto and why should it? Heartbreak is even crazier than love.