How to feel a broken heart when you’re in love
A Poem
There is no pain
But you need to feel again
A smile upon your face
As you live in the bliss of space
But you know that others are feeling gloom
And it’s time to allow your empathy to lean into doom
Your lover kisses you upon the lips
From your mouth, a moan slips
But instead of a joyous sound
Behind it, some dread abounds
As you force yourself to feel others’ dread
Over their relationships that are now dead
Let that tear slip from your eye
Even if you don’t want to cry
Because nothing ever lasts forever
And just because you’re now together
Doesn’t mean you won’t again join the world of singles
Where you’ll be left to mingle
With others carrying years of baggage and sadness
So let yourself feel the madness
Of a broken heart, even though you’re in love
Just because you now have a beloved
Doesn’t mean things will last forever
So don’t think that you will never
Need to mend and heal your heart
Now’s a great time for your feelings to start.
About the Creator
Ivy Rose
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Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanova3 days ago in Poets
from death into life
Young Aldin of Wiloh had never contemplated death. It was almost strange — so many around him had the tendency to obsess over it, to clamor and claw almost desperately at their own perceptions of the end to know death as much as they could: when it would come, why it would come, where it would take them when it did.
By angela hepworth3 days ago in Fiction
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