Withdrawal

What withdrawal feels like

It feels like my heart being shaken against the walls of my rib cage

when I see how easily you've moved on,

how your life and your art are moving forward

while I myself feel trapped in a cage.

My pen and my brush,

frozen in time and space and pain and overthinking.

It feels like my body were made of a million different shards,

like those of the plate you broke,

and they just don't fit together anymore.

No matter how much kintsugi I try to force onto it,

It will always bear the fracture.

What withdrawal looks like

It looks like I haven't cleaned my apartment in five weeks

like me eating the same fucking dish every single meal,

every single day.

It looks like me writing in my journal

the word "fuck"

hoping that somewhere around the hundredth time,

the ache would finally dissolve.

What withdrawal sounds like

It sounds like crying out loud in rage at random moments

when I remember shit you said to me,

secrets you've kept,

mean words you've yelled and

the manipulatory silences in which

you let me project all of my wishes and dreams,

in which my inner child drew castles and houses

and joint YouTube channels

taking that trip for our birthdays

and all the other stuff we planned but will never do.

You let her go nuts, promised her the moon,

and after making sure I was fully latched on

to this shitty theme park ride you designed for me,

you let your rage roam free,

cause by that time

I'd swallow my dignity and forgive you.

What withdrawal tastes like

It tastes like unsalted rice and vegetables,

everything bland and obedient, seasoned only by your hypertension.

It tastes like lemon and that oatmeal porridge

I used to decorate for you every morning

with slices of fruit of all different colors.

It tastes like pain perdu, the one you said reminded you of childhood

like the orange juice you take with your chlorella

in the morning.

It tastes like ice cream and the chlorine water

I swallowed while you were teaching me to swim.

It tastes like China ink because

one time, after a painting session, I smeared it on my lips

while spiraling about us again.

What withdrawal smells like

It smells like MHC molecules and pheromones

ylang-ylang

my orchid perfume

Arabian rose...

It smells like salt in your hair

and organic soap

and the armpits of the only man

whose sweat I not only tolerated but craved.

It smells like all the tools in your work car

like cement and fresh grass

and green wind.

It smells like ozone after the rain at your bedroom window

that never fully closed.

It smells of the ginger drinks we had every time we went out dancing

of the cocoa beans you had instead of coffee

and of the two foals and their mares we visited every week

all summer to watch them grow.

And for some reason, it felt like we were them,

scared and vulnerable.

Well, you should know that

today there's only one foal left,

and I think that's pretty fucking symbolic.

I don't know where it went,

but the other horses all have that look

of someone wondering, "What does it all mean?"

Withdrawal is like this whole fucking synesthetic experience

that just never seems to end.

And every morning, Saturn is testing me

and I have to prove that I've learned my lessons

before 2026 comes,

before this cycle ends.

This year, I thought I’d met my husband—

turns out it was the final boss fight in disguise.

I’m giving it my all. There’s no other way through.

If I pass, I’ll earn my freedom

no longer circling your orbit,

no longer mistaking pain for light.

Thank you for all the lessons.

I wish you all the best.

Next.

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Thank you for reading this latest poem about my recovery from a trauma bond. Previous works about this same relationship that made Top Story: