I’m letting you go, not because I want to, but because it’ll be better for me.
I’m letting you go because I’ve been picking at the same scab for far too long. It’s oozing pus. It’s caked with blood. It’s swollen around the edges and struggling to heal. Yet here I am, fighting against myself. Clawing away, oblivious to the pain. Allowing it to fester and glorifying the suffering it brings.
I’m letting you go because there’s a weight in my heart that refuses to budge. It’s chained manacles to my hands and feet and tossed me into the ocean with an anchor around my neck. I’m trying to surface but I can’t breathe, and I’m trying to breathe but I can’t surface. I can’t end things either. I’ve been left to wrinkle like a prune, lungs burning with no fire, eyes open with no sight.
I’m letting you go because your faded existence has left me empty. There are holes everywhere that can’t be filled. My soul is pouring out relentlessly yet I’m still drowning in my own tears. Still waking up to a drenched pillow, a raw throat, a shivering body. There’s nowhere else to store my sorrow but in the bags under my eyes, nowhere else to hide but deep inside myself.
I’m letting you go because once my broken heart heals, I’m hoping to find you again– or at least someone who reminds me of you– with that same melting smile, eyes as bright as the naked sun, and hands and lips moulded to fit mine.
Someone who will make me whole again.
Someone who will make my blackened world burst forth with colour.
Just like you did.
Art by Anders Rockum (Tumblr)