You were the most beautiful kind of poetry I could ever write. I could write a thousand words for just your demeanor and a hundred stanzas just for the way you look. I could conjure lines about how you made me fall for your charm. I could write endless poems about how you were such an exhilarating mystery.
But I realized you didn’t choose to love me back in the end – and that’s when I stopped writing. I was the only one who was treating this atrocity as if it was so beautiful by laying words on every ache; there wasn’t anything pretty about wounding yourself over and over. Remove the words, and all this was just miserable and colorless.
I had to stop revering this anguish that you caused. It wasn’t tragically beautiful; it was just painful. You weren’t someone who taught me to love; you were just someone who broke my heart. I wasn’t a girl, intoxicated, with words flowing out of her in the wee hours of the night; I was just someone, glaringly drunk, typing on her laptop at two in the morning. I had to stop treating my broken pieces as if they were lovely; they only cut my hands and caused them to bleed where I tried my hardest to hold onto them.
I stopped writing about you, and your eyes weren’t horizons anymore. Your voice wasn’t music; your presence wasn’t a fresh breath of air. You were just this boy, at some point in my life, who tried to make me fall in love with him and chose to leave me in the dust. You stopped being this alluring heartbreak the moment I stopped writing about you.