This Is Heartache

lydia harper

It took years to reach intimacy and loveliness.
It only took a few moments to become strangers again. You are a stranger with whom I have shared some of the best memories of my life.
You did not care about me, about us, about every little poem I wrote for and about you.
For years, I have cared enough for the both of us. But I am afraid I have nothing left in me. You used me all up. You emptied me.
Suddenly, the life I have been dreaming about and planning is reduced to crumbs at my feet.
I am left with nothing but myself to pick up of the floor and try to fix.
I have only myself to blame for my heartache.
From now on, mornings will excruciatingly hard.
Every piece of music will prove difficult to digest and not associate with some part of my sadness. Then, anger will set in. Anger at myself, at you, at everyone and anyone unfortunate enough to step into my line of sight.
The ghost of you sleeps in my bed and sits by my window.
The ghost of you walks beside me along our favorite part of town.
My eyes are permanently damp from your last words.
Now, I need to live with a wrecked girl. I have to face her every single day. I need to take care of a living and breathing mess every day.
This girl will not trust anyone again for years to come. Not even herself.
You broke me. Why? Why couldn’t you be careful with me?
You broke me. I hope you can live with that. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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