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#heartbreak

I am trying really hard to let go

You weren’t right for me and we both know that. In fact I think most people would say you were very wrong. That still doesn’t make it easy to let go. I hadn’t talked to you in a week and I was proud of myself but these last few days have been really hard. I missed knowing I had someone on my side like that. I’m starting to do my own thing again but I still feel lost. Too much free time which is used to think and regret.

I’m sorry for calling you. I am trying really hard to let go.

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I will always be your friend. Nothing more.

Thought it breaks my heart, I will support you. I will listen to everything even if you are talking about the love of your life.. someone I can never be.

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Heartbreak…

The poet said, “I have never known any mystery greater than a heart…”

“Then love has to be a quest to disentangle the enigma… For, I have never seen a thing of beauty, as modest as a broken heart…” She said.

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Heartbreak. What a tricky painful experience to have, why tricky? Because just like mental illnesses it is unseen and just like mental illnesses it is so dramatized and poeticized that it became overrated and underrated at the same time. It is an intimate experience, too personal that it feels like an atomic bomb just exploded in your body, while to the world, it seems like a very cliché attention-seeking method. But it’s yours to feel and it’s painfully real, it’s not the kind of breaking where a wall crumbles down too fast causing one loud thud, it’s where a wall catches on fire, burns, cracks, shakes, falls down brick by brick on the hard pavement that causes it to break into tinier pieces. It’s slow torture, when you feel the parts in you, that were once filled with love, leave your body through the reminders of fading kisses and hickeys on your wounded skin.

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If my heart is poetry, then the last love poem I wrote is a crumpled up memo and you are a journal I was hoping to fill my days with until the space ran out.

But I must have cramped my writing hand because even muscle memory has forgotten how I used it. Were you thinking of her then too?

When I flipped through your pages, did you remember her fingerprints on your surface edges? Was I just a creased corner pointing backwards for the place you saved for her? And when she broke your heart, did she also crack your spine so you would always fall in her direction?

I admit I never left you open on my nightstand, but I guess you were already stolen in someone else’s secrets and affection.

There’s a reason I stopped using notebooks and pencils; at least the backspace is relatively painless when you enter into a document knowing it’s only temporary. And no, I’m not afraid of her ink stains, just my habit to Rorschach their meaning into tea leaf and palm-line predictions, reminders that all stories must have endings because I will always believe in the portraits of disaster, even if it never begins.

So when did I become so bold that I scrawled my thoughts in marker, hoping they would bleed through your body and become permanent.

But you marked hers first. Said you would always be her diary, and I guess that makes me an entry on an off day. But see, I don’t care how many libraries there are in the world; I’d still look for you when I can’t find the right synonym for beautiful, when other men touch me I am searching for your plot lines. Your papercuts are the first thing I was willing to bleed for in so long.

But i’m not blaming you. I’m blaming me. Because if my heart is poetry, then I only want you to remember the lines about love lingering like my scent on your t-shirt that night you asked me over, even though we both had to get up early the next morning. Do you remember? You said you’d put it on later just to be close to me again.

But I’m not trying to be more than your friend, nor am I postponing an inevitable end. After all, they say if you truly love someone, let them go.

So please know that I’m willing to paper crane all your pages until they papyrus the sky like the stars we’ll finally discover when they turn out all the lights. And I may never be the one who sleeps next to you at night, but at least let me be the love letter tucked beneath your pillowcase to remind you that no matter what, you will always, always be worth the read, my love.


Lauren Bullock - “Love Notes”

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bro im rlly feeling touch-starved rn 😔. i just want a soulmate or partner to just cuddle w/ me.. and just gimme hugs and stuff.. i wanna go on a date w/ someone, @ a bookstore or just have someone to goof around w/ and be serious… is that so hard to ask for?? 🥺😞

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You know what sad? That you love someone with everything, romantically and existently. You appreciate everything about them; their habits , words, laughs, stupidity everything.

And then do something stupid enough that the only thing you remember is the helplessness you felt while with them.

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