If We’re Being Honest, I Don’t Wanna Write About You

I don’t want you to be the reason why I found the right words or the perfect metaphors. I don’t want you to be my poetry. I don’t want all the beautiful phrases I can possibly compose to be about you. I don’t want any of that, because I know the right words and the perfect metaphors would be out of hurt and goodbyes. And the poetry and all the beautiful phrases would be out of it’s-been-a-while and I-hope-you’re-fine.

My pain and grief eventually become my art, and I have made peace with that. Anytime anything this beautiful happens to me, I just wait for something to implode because they always eventually do. They always end. And if I’m lucky and it ends really ugly, then I could turn it into something good or inspiring, even empowering. I write something so beautiful that I end up being so grateful things ended. I write something so empowering that I start waiting for more pain. It’s how I find the good in my little tragedy. It’s how I find beauty in the ugly, wisdom amid confusion.

It’s how I find answers to my never-ending questions of what-ifs or why-me and am-I-not-good-enough.

My pain — it becomes my art, so precious that it reaches people going through similar pain and grief and hurt. And I don’t wanna write about you because I don’t want you to be my pain. I don’t ever wanna hurt or grieve because of you. I don’t want to succumb to the fear that one day, just like everyone else, you’ll realize nothing about me is worth anything. I don’t wanna believe that soon, just like everyone else, I’ll watch you turn your back and walk away. I don’t wanna find myself trying to turn that pain into art so enticing it could touch souls.

I don’t ever want you to turn into my art.

I want you to stay in my reality, in my world — in the world we built for us where nothing else matters, where everything else fades. For once, I don’t want to jump to conclusions that this will pass, that this will end. Instead, I wanna jump into the unknown with you, and see everything unfold before our eyes and cross every bridge we can find and be scared and safe at the same time.

I don’t want your goodbye. I don’t want this to implode. I don’t want it to end — not yet. Not now.

For once, I wanna be selfish and keep you for as long as I possibly can. For once, I don’t want to expect the worst from you.

So, if we’re being completely honest, I don’t ever want to come to a point when I have to write about you. And if losing you is what it would take for me to come up with the right words and perfect metaphors, wonderful poetry, and beautiful phrases one more time, then maybe I don’t wanna write at all.