Month: March 2017

Four.

It’s clichéd to have hearts broken.

It’s clichéd to cry over it for days.

It’s clichéd to lose appetite over it.

It’s clichéd to indulge in distractions.

It’s clichéd to stay there in the blanket of memories and forever missing.

It’s clichéd to drown the unsaid in the smoke of cigarettes.

It’s clichéd to watch the sunset and not realize it’s rising again.

It’s clichéd to play smiles and tears over and over like a midnight love song on a loop.

It’s clichéd to not want to throw away the quilt in the warmer half of March, even though there’s sweat and tears and discomfort.

It’s clichéd to stay up late watching everything that’s despicable because being a masochist is clichéd too.

It’s clichéd to go back to the same places and do the same things, but alone.

It’s clichéd to sleep to dreams of a pulsating heart and wake up to a bleeding one.

It’s clichéd to not give up on it.

It’s clichéd to harbor false hope.

It’s clichéd to count days, weeks, months of what would’ve been.

It’s clichéd to remember the forgotten in new places and old objects.

It’s clichéd to double over in pain every other night and yet vomit a little more the next time.

It’s clichéd to fool the mind into believing the memories will wither and die soon.

It’s clichéd to go back to square one in the spaces between laughs and sobs.

It’s clichéd to die a little when the forgotten face pricks the back of the mind.

It’s clichéd to die slowly and then all at once, seeing the shadows of what was in what is to be.

Because, after all,

It’s clichéd to have hearts broken.

*shatters*

Advertisements