to the one who broke me

to the one who broke me

 

i hope you’re doing well,

even though you called me a shitty friend

and listed all the things you hate about me

at 3 am on a monday morning;

because i can’t blame you for hating me

since i hate myself too

 

i hope you have found your happiness

or anything that can make you smile

even though you made me feel absolutely abandoned

like I was a crowded subway station

and everyone decided to get on the next train

that rolled through town

 

because you were the shattered glass

submerged in the dark corners of

my Philadelphia subway station,

and i was the unfortunate soul

to step on your shards.

no matter my sobs of pain,

your silence drowns me out.

it is the only song

which comes to haunt me

and i think,

have i been ignored or forgotten?

 

in those months with you,

i let my personality slip through your fingers

not mine, but yours;

like i emptied the contents of that bottle of vodka

into my hollow stomach

like i still do every night,

and maybe it's because i keep reliving the moment

where you decided you wanted nothing to do with me,

because that was the moment i realized i have no one else.

 

in the process of letting you pull me closer

i pushed everything else out

and crumpled old memories and laughs

until they were no more than the slight turn up

of the corner of a stranger’s mouth

 

you were the one with gentle green eyes

hazel rays of rising flames

who lured me in saying how

i could have been pretty.

and at the time i didn’t know that ‘almost pretty’

isn’t a compliment

but by then you had lit me on fire

and didn’t bother sticking around to enjoy the show.

 

you were the one with dark brown eyes

shots of aged whiskey and damp soil

eyes like that could grow meadows

and that’s what you did

planting thorns and roots through my chest

when i finally looked around

I noticed all the flowers were withered.

 

but blue eyes are the worst.

you were the one with blue eyes streaked grey,

those darkened clouds cried

and i thought the tears were real,

until i found your calluses

burning into the soft flesh of my thigh,

like my fathers cigarettes.

 

so maybe it makes me a fool, because

i’m still waiting around

in a crowded subway station

for someone like you.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

LisaTormala

Really well written.

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741