Painting by Waldemar Kazak

The hardest part about moving on
is having to accept the fact
you are no longer mine.
Frankly, my dear,
the thought of you being with someone else
kills me.

Some other girl will get to
moan your name,
and feel your touch,
and leave their marks upon your back,
and it’s not fair.
Why does she get to wake up next to you
and taste your lips
when I’m the one who loves you
and you’ve just met?

You will hold her like you held me.
You will talk to her like you talked to me.
You will look at her like you looked at me.
You will grab her hips, bite her lips, pull her hair,
kiss her, grope her breasts, finger her, fuck her, moan for her.
And as you hold her close,
hold her close to your heart that once beat with mine and take her in every position imaginable to every inch of the room you were supposed to share with me,
I will have realized that I am nothing.
All of it meant nothing to you,
and I was nothing, nothing, nothing.
No one particular and not any more special than the girl responsible

for the pleasure you’re feeling throughout your entire body.

And darling, you have every right.
You have every right
to fuck every girl in the bar.
But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to crush my brain
with a bullet, with a hammer,
with anything to make the images stop.
Stop.
STOP.
(Please, I can’t look at them anymore.)

There are too many vivid pictures inside my head
of you being with someone else in bed.
And here I am on the bathroom floor
choking on all my mistakes,
and vomiting out all of my fears.
(There mere idea of it all makes me physically sick.)

Painting by Waldemar Kazak

And what hurts the most
is probably knowing that
you will have touched her exactly
the same way you touched me, but
you will not break her heart,
no. You will not whisper promises to her
and leave her and give up on her,
like what you did to me. Remember?
(So I guess, in a way, she’s more special than me, huh?)

But it’s my own fault anyway because
I should’ve known boys
who can only keep four-month relationships
would eventually disappoint you and stop trying
after two months of wonderful happiness together.

“I only wanted you to fuck me,
but then I got greedy, I wanted you to love me.”
Thanks for proving them right.
For all the people that said we didn’t have a chance.
For all the people that took bets on how short we’d last.
I should’ve seen it coming.

“I wanna bet with them so I can win
and get rich when I come back to you.
We’ll prove them wrong, baby.
You are the best thing in my life right now.
You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
I am so lucky to have you.”
Then please explain with an essay
why there’s another girl
blowing your dick right now.

“I don’t feel like myself anymore.”
It’s terrible, isn’t it? Falling in love.
Loving someone so much, so real
they start becoming a part of your soul.
You change and you’re losing yourself
into the existence of that other person.
(And I always thought it was beautiful
to share your life with someone but
who am I to judge you for being so scared?)

So when you stare at her pretty face
like you did with mine,
I hope you’ll hear my voice asking –

Does she know how lucky she is?
Does she know how wonderful you are? Does she even care?
Does she love you like I do?
Will she want something more than a one-night stand? Will you give it to her?
Or will she just be another one of your conquests?
Will you push her up against the shower wall until she screams out for all the neighbors to hear or will you prefer to take her from behind, sideways, or standing up?

I can’t take it,
I can’t take it,
I can’t take it.
Tell me
how am I supposed to handle this?
Because
I can’t
I can’t
I can’t erase the memory of your face,
the way you looked beneath me with
my hands on your chest,
the smoothness of breathing I discovered when
my mouth inhaled the air you exhaled from your lips, or
the way you pushed me down onto the covers with
your hand on my mouth and the other on my waist,
and until now
my body responds to only you because,
making love or dirty sex,
you always unapologetically took what was yours.
And that’s the problem –

I’m still yours.
You still have my heart completely, whereas
you
are
not
mine.

Now you see?
Why the thought of you
being with someone else is
literally killing me.
And you couldn’t care less.
Because I am just one of the writhing bodies
that ruined your bed sheets;
and the physicality of sex
with someone you can touch
could never beat the simplicity of love
with someone miles away.

I lose.
I lose to her.
I lost to a stranger that you met at a pub, in a bar, on the beach, from a friend of a friend, or —
Pause.
Gameover.
I’m running high on coffee,
but low on spirits,
and my anxiety is rising,
while I’m trying to keep the demons at bay.
(It’s getting worse again,
and I’m running out of excuses
not to hurt myself.)
I haven’t slept at all for days,
and I think you know exactly what my nightmares
will be all about.
My chest feels like
I swallowed shards of glass
that cut me each time I breathe.
Someone please stab my eyes and rip out my insides, because
being alive reminds me too much of
what loving you feels like.

—

Sade Andria Zabala is a twenty-four year old Filipina surfer sometimes living in Denmark. She is the author of poetry books War Songs and Coffee and Cigarettes. Her work has appeared on places such as Literary Orphans, The Thought Catalog, The Rising Phoenix Review, Hooligan Magazine, Germ Magazine, and more. In her spare time she likes to eat words and drink sunlight.

Read all from this author

Read our exclusive Artletter

Painting by Catrin Walz Stein

Subscribe to receive the most awe-inspiring stories from ArtParasites, only available by ArtLetter.

Be the first to write a comment.