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[delicatechrysanthemum]

I think I’m finally over it.

Or finally over myself

in terms of him.

I think I sent my final message.

Something easier.

Something softer.

Something that would leave me with closure

without making me bleed more than I already was.

I didn’t come harsh at him

because it would only hurt me more,

but I said things

that hurt just as bad as if I did.

And he listened.

I don’t know why.

Maybe because he genuinely doesn’t care.

Maybe because he sees my pleading

and knows it’s true.

Whatever it is,

I know I have to move on.

The shortest poem is a name.

His name.

The amount of poems I’ve written in his name.

The amount of times

I’ve used his existence

as ink.

Expressing myself through words

with his name on my mind,

giving me all the inspiration I needed

to finally say how I feel.

I never used to do this before.

I never even cared for it.

But I kept you a secret,

so I had to learn how to talk to myself about you.

I had to sit alone

and genuinely ask myself

how I felt

because there was nowhere else

for those feelings to go.

And in the end,

this thing I created to survive loving you,

became the thing I use

to survive not having you anymore.

And now it’s official.

[delicatechrysanthemum]

If it makes me feel good, I let it.

I love to love it

whatever it is, whatever it isn’t.

Happiness is rare for me,

not because I don’t seek it,

but because it hides.

Finding it feels like chasing light

through a closing sky.

For me, love comes once in a blood moon

not because I am difficult to love,

but because loving me

requires complexity,

diversity,

depth in every direction.

I am specific.

I am singular.

The universe does not send just anyone my way.

Nothing is random

it is always meant to be.

I wish it were permanent,

but not everyone is meant to stay.

Some arrive as lessons,

and not every lesson

is a wound

or a flaw in myself.

I have learned to love me,

without conditions.

I am all I have.

I am all I will ever have.

So I take it all

the good, the bad, the ache, the wonder.

I am grateful to witness

this strange phenomenon called life.

You only get to die

for having lived.

And most who could ever be born

will never exist.

I am one.

Here.

In a universe that chose me.

[delicatechrysanthemum]

If I could sing and turn my poems into songs,

I don’t think I’d be capable of singing them.

How would I sing over the lump in my throat

that begs to be let out?

How would I read the lyrics

through vision blurred by tears aching to be wiped away?

How would I belt and vocalize

when every note is interrupted

by cracks and croaks of pain and heartbreak?

So instead, I write.

I write in the most passionate voice I have,

so you feel these words in every way art knows how to touch.

I pour everything into them

the ache, the longing, the love

because this is how I survive being unheard.

I wish I could sing like a free bird in the morning,

spreading sweet melodies into the air,

letting them land softly on anyone who listens,

making them feel seen,

making them feel heard,

just because they recognized my tune.

[delicatechrysanthemum]

I don’t think I’ll ever cringe at this.

I don’t think time will make me smaller

for the way I loved you.

I don’t think I’ll feel embarrassed

for reaching for you with my whole heart,

for acting the way people only do

when they mean it.

I don’t think I ever loved before

not like this,

not with the way I loved to love you,

like it was instinct,

like my body recognized yours

before my mind could catch up.

I don’t think I’ll regret this.

No matter how hard I try

to tell myself I was dumb,

too emotional,

too much.

Because I did it out of love.

And love was the truest thing in me.

What you felt for me was real.

I know it was.

I could feel it when you looked at me,

in the space you held open,

in the way your energy softened around mine.

Right person, wrong time

I know it’s true.

Love at first sight

I felt it happen.

I know what passed between us.

I know what I felt in my chest

when you were near.

Even if nothing followed,

even if it ended here

what we felt

was real.

[delicatechrysanthemum]

I won’t ask you to apologize,

even though what you did

cut deeper than I let on.

I’ll carry the sorry instead,

wrap it around my chest

like it belongs to me.

I’m sorry for making love

feel complicated,

for needing more than silence,

for turning my feelings

into something that asks to be seen.

I don’t know which hurts more

that you’ll never read

the poems written in your name,

or that you might read them

and feel nothing at all.

Both feel like losing you,

just in different ways.

One is absence.

The other is presence without care.

And I’m still here,

apologizing for loving you

the only way I knew how.

[delicatechrysanthemum]

You’re always on my mind.

Always in my dreams.

That’s why I sleep so much

because dreaming of you

is easier than waking without you.

You’re all I ever write about.

You’re the reason

I started writing like this

with this kind of fire,

this kind of feeling.

You unlocked something in me,

a strong, emotional energy

I didn’t know I had

until I met you.

And I couldn’t love you

in a generic way.

I didn’t know how to make it neat,

or simple,

or easy to receive.

So it looked like

I didn’t care.

But I did

so deeply.

I just didn’t know

how to express it.

That kind of tenderness is hard

when trauma lives in your body.

When love feels unfamiliar.

When softness feels unsafe.

I was scared.

I’m like a kitten

you find on the street

you try to give her a good home,

gentle hands,

warm intentions.

But she fights.

She bites.

Because she doesn’t know

what love is supposed to look like

or feel like.

So you leave her there,

on the street,

where you think she belongs.

So I sleep my days away,

dreaming of you

and your tenderness.

You’re no angel.

You have your flaws,

Mr. Model.

But not to me.

To me,

you were imperfect perfection

because I never cared

about anything

but what lived inside you.

And now,

I’m learning to stay awake again.

Not because I’ve forgotten you,

but because I’m finally learning

what love is supposed to feel like

and I’m choosing

to give it

to myself.

[delicatechrysanthemum]

Mutable…

and cardinal.

We were never meant to be.

It was never in our destiny.

Still

it would’ve been beautiful

to be free with you,

pretty little bird.

I was never a match

for your spirit.

You moved like the wind,

and I learned how to bend

just to stay close.

Out of all the things

I could adapt into,

all the ways

I tried to become more

I could never be perfect for you.

And perfection…

that’s what steadies you,

while it slowly

breaks me.

So we crossed lines quietly.

Violated each other’s moral codes

with soft hands

and hungry hearts,

just to feel wanted.

We didn’t know

what it meant

to be mutable and cardinal

not for ourselves,

not for each other.

Because if we had known,

we would’ve let go gently.

Our goodbye

would’ve been full of love,

not bitterness.

And maybe then

I wouldn’t have been

so accepting of you,

just to protect

something

we were never meant to have.

Because what would a man like you

be doing

with a girl like me?

I’ve accepted

that it will never be.

I say that out loud now,

like a prayer

I don’t fully believe.

But I still grieve

the dream

how badly

I wanted my fairytale

to be real.

And when it shattered,

I shattered with it.

I picked up the pieces,

let them cut me,

bled quietly

in a despair

no one ever found me in.

It’s been six months

longer than we even knew each other.

So I whisper this

into the dark:

should I hate you

for breaking my heart,

or forgive myself

for loving someone

who couldn’t love me back?