Loving you

by Talicha J.

Loving you is uncomfortable like realizing there’s no toilet paper after you’ve already used the bathroom.
It is inconvenient like getting a bad tattoo in a time before tattoos could be removed.
Loving you is a hailstorm of regrets with no shelter to await its passing.
It is a car crash with no survivors,
and a metaphor with no meaning.


I should have listened to my diary when it told me you were not the home my heart was searching for.
Loving you is random like rain only falling on one half of the street,
I just watch, baffled, wondering if it’ll ever make it to the other side.
It is off beat, just when I think I have its code deciphered the rhythm of loving you switches tempo.
It is painful loving you, like lemon juice licking paper cuts
or sea salt swimming along the channels of future scars.


Loving you is a time loop where every day is a nightmare because I wake up still missing you, still loving you, still missing you, still…
Loving you is a life sentence, it is black bars and keyless locks,
it is gavel bangs for heartbeats attempting to call for order.


I bet I’ve bled more pens dry writing about what loving you has done to me than you’ve shed tears over this: us.
Tell me, did loving me hurt you this bad?
Were my eyes ever trigger happy to your soul?
Did the memory of my love leave death echoes haunting your heart?
Did loving me ever leave you feeling like you were breathing with punctured lungs?


Loving me must have brought out the liar in you.
Because I remember you told me I was beautiful,
I replied that I was broken and you said what’s the difference?
That the beauty was in between the pieces of me glued back together.
And I believed you because loving you makes me foolish, it makes me hopeful, it makes me human.


I remember the first time I ever laid eyes on your flaws.
Do you remember how I never held them against you?
I fell harder for you instead.
I’ve got the scars to prove it housed in picture frames packed away in a box I only find the courage to open on the days that I’m missing you, but when am I ever not missing you?


Loving you is a full-time job making minimum wage,
even on the best days when I come in and do overtime I still never get what I deserve.
It is dissatisfying to love you, do you know that?
Is that why you pushed, why you fought like hell to free your heart from my grasp?
Were you aware that loving you was this excruciating?
If so love, why didn’t you sound the sirens sooner?
Before my innocent take on matters of the heart became distorted,
twisted and contorted so much so that I couldn’t tell the difference between loving you and hurting myself.


I want to go back to the moment our eyes first locked and look away.
No, that’s a lie.
I want to go back to the moment our eyes first locked,
and do everything the same,
because loving you, as much as it makes me a martyr,
is something I can not undo.


We wore each others’ imperfections perfectly,
but even on our worst days we were beautiful,
some would maybe argue broken,
but I say, what’s the difference?
There are skeletons buried beneath her bed frame.
Pelvic bones and fingers she’s forgotten about.
Her headboard is a tombstone,
epitaph carved out of ex-lovers attempts at keeping her pleased,
it reads something like a love letter pressed between the pages of a diary, unsent and forever tugging at the ends of frayed memories.


Memories like the one of the first boy she’d ever let hold her in between these sheets,
she’s forgotten already how he whispered into the nape of her neck that she was beautiful,
that she was destined for greatness,
all she can remember is that he left her.


After months of giving him every first she could muster the trust to give he’d moved on and with him the words he’d confessed across the flesh of her bared body had disappeared.
She stopped believing she was beautiful.
Started to figure out that she was sexy and now her bed sheets were changing frequently.


She was hungry for words she’d stopped hearing,
confused the slurs of Jack Daniels for compliments.
Mistook moans and thrusts as a testament to who she was.
She let them all love her the way men tend to love you when they’re young: selfishly.


She was drowning in a sea of compliments that didn’t mean a thing and she couldn’t figure out why they didn’t make her happy,
so she’d move on to the next guy, breaking hearts and collecting bones along the way.


There are broken hearts and promises buried beneath her bed frame.
Cracked ulnas and fractured wrists of those who were never quite able to hold her when she needed them are strewn amongst the wreckage.
There are too many notches on her bedpost to count these days,
they read like suicide notes from her self respect’s broken spirit begging her to stop breaking bathroom mirrors, break bad habits instead.


With her ever-lowering esteem of self she became victim to her own reflections diatribes.
Her bedroom eyes became the prison bars she’d never realized she was trapped behind.
Somewhere amongst the skeletons of past lovers laid her own broken soul and, beneath the carnage her self-worth was suffocating.


There are people in this world who bend but never break and then there are those of us who break at slightest bend,
we are not weak for breaking but I believe true strength lies within the healing.
We can not fix what we do not acknowledge is no longer working.
She could not fix what she did not acknowledge…
I want to tell her that the validation she seeks from others won’t help, the words must come from her own mouth, the love has to be from her own heart.
I want to tell her that it’s a mistake to put more weight on the opinions of others than to be fully invested in her own self.


I want to tell her there is more of her to love than just her body.
And if she’s listening, if you are listening please,
fall in love with yourself.
Be happy in your skin, and never again let anyone bury their bones beneath your bed frame.

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