I sat out on the porch today, glimpsing through old diaries and dog-eared books. A picture fell out. Its me. Five years ago. I’m smiling, you see. And in those five minutes out on the porch, I aged years.
We were toxic and torn apart, right from the start. There was something amiss right in the root of our tale. There was pain and anger, there was frustration and a brewing storm. We were one and we were still not one. They knew, all of them. They watched as I stood in the eye of your storm. They stared as you tore apart everything I’d built. They left, when they saw that you created from me a bonfire of bones and rust. But the truth is, the fire burned down my mind. It burned through eclipses of sanity.
The scars under my flesh were never really enough for you. You wanted the world to know I belonged to you. You left red on me, and I couldn’t wash it away even after nights of crying myself to sleep. You left purple and blue on me, and the rainbows bled from my ache. You left a scalding orange terror on my skin, everytime you touched my being. You rushed your yellow mania on my hopeless heart and fought my black strength with an iron clad cut.
My wounds were infected, much like my mind. Infected with your white lies, infected with your brusque madness. Infected with your possessive hold. The hold that clutched my throat, that stopped me from screaming. The hold that at first, was my undoing.
And I sit on the porch, and smoothen my scars and straighten the pages of my diary. You see, the bleeding of a heart can go on for only as long as you have one. My faded scars are your lineage, something I will never forget. The softened blows are your leaving behind, something that was so fresh when I left.