The End

It’s a lot harder to put pen to paper, when the reality of starting may never stop. Who really wants to hear about another heartbroken human shell?

How do you put into words, the betrayal of a beating heart? Though to call it a beating heart would be poetry, yours was beyond irregular

How do you put pen to paper, when they’ve made you question every ounce of human emotion, a tidal wave of insecurity, a rollercoaster of inadequate devotion

My pen hovers, thinking of each time your serpent tongue spat venom laced with lies, betrayal and manipulation

The ink thickens as I fixate on each time you took the traits that shaped me and threw them to the wind. In spite you shattered them like icicles and aimed the spare shards towards my chest

You could never find in you what bled so easily from me

My paper blots like the salty drops which streamed so tirelessly in exhaustion

A sheer lack of comprehension how someone, whose heart I could hear like a drum could have the audacity to bathe in my energy, let alone peel it from my clasped grip

The full stops on my paper hit as hard as the pain and anger which riddled my veins in every version of my story where I tried to decode how this could possibly be my fault

Regardless of how many times I re-write this story, your unhappy ending will never change

As I take an expelling breath of the cold autumn air, my sigh of relief echoes in the morning mist

My pen doesn’t fear the paper when it notes The calligraphic End of my story, a version where I am alone, happy, no longer an exhausted shell

Yet this is the ending you wrote yourself, so I guess thanks, farewell

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