‘’I think I made you up inside my head.’’ – Sylvia Plath
For a better understanding of this poem, please read using a sarcastic tone. I think I have problems with my imagination lately, because some people lack accountability so badly.
I just got confused in my head
This one did not happen We didn’t go to the park Tension rose in the air with each word that came out. We didn’t keep on talking endlessly without a reason why. We didn’t see the lake, took a picture of nature from another era You didn’t invite me over… to still talk To still say how we feel as if our time was running out in that specific moment And I didn’t say an innocent ‘’yes’’ My lips were sealed shut with all the ‘’no’s’’ in the world. You didn’t hug me, I didn’t feel your skin touching me Your hands creating circles all over my back, You didn’t bring me safety as we kissed… and kissed… and kissed Our lips making love songs. We didn’t go to bed and get rid of clothes, staying awake all night because we were having way too much fun by sharing parts of our lives Deep conversations about life and the girl you have been seeing… or not seeing It depends on which point of view you want to take this in. You didn’t want to make love to me for so long To know how it would feel like to touch my skin, To feel all the spots in your body touching mine, To abandon yourself in my arms. You didn’t tell me you miss me like the leaves miss their trees in the fall. You didn’t love me, I just dreamed all of it I just got confused in my head about who was the most important woman in your life Me or her or someone else. I shouldn’t be writing this because nothing ever happens So this one didn’t either… or, at least, not for other people to know.
I can’t sleep. I keep hearing your voice in my head over and over again telling me that you care about me, that you put your soul into everything you do. And I really hope you’re lying because this time it’s breaking me into pieces.
I can see us now in my dream. We are at some wedding. I don’t know. On a balcony. You are dressed nicely. Tuxedo. Black. Something like that. I don’t know what I’m wearing but I hope it’s a tight red dress. I have a glass of champagne in my hand. I look at you and you look at me and our gazes lock. You say nothing this time, but I know that look. I’ve seen it a million times before. You want me. You need me. You miss me. You love me.
It just rips my heart out because you ruined your whole life out of pressure for them to like you:
‘’I hope you’re happy. I wish you all the best. I hope you will be happy with the woman that you love.’’
That’s all I say. I look at you. You say nothing because it hurts. I can see it in your eyes. Then, I put the glass of champagne down on the balcony and I leave you there all alone.
Somewhere, in a bathroom, I crumble down. Somewhere you don’t see because it took everything in me not to love you, not to kiss you, not to stay. But I wanted you for me, so much. I just had to do the right thing, I have my morals.
I let my silence fill in the empty spaces. All the words I couldn’t say. ‘Cause sometimes silence is better than words because in silence you can always get the answers you need if you are brave enough to listen. And the answers are not in the things we do say, but in the things we don’t.
And I didn’t tell you how much I loved you, I let you guess that… from my silence.
I loved you so much, why did you have to ruin it? Now my vision is blurry and I am full of fury and I keep fantasizing about our lovemaking. Maybe I feel fury in my lovemaking because it’s just unbelievable how unfair it was to keep you next to me. To think that you would actually stay here, happy, smiling. To believe that you would never betray me. I guess I was stupid to believe that and I guess that this was just wishful thinking – to believe you could actually love me so purely like that. I wanted to believe you but I do not know the difference between lies and truth. My vision is blurry and my tears are falling down my cheeks.
‘’I love you, but I do not wish you were here’’, as Sabina Benaim once said. I love you, but I wish I was alone, which I am. Alone and hurting under the covers, in my own little bed. Listening to sad songs. I think I have become that sad song and I should listen to myself instead. My heart speaks the words and I just echo them back. My hands are the guitar chords since I used to touch you with them. They know the rhythms of this song. I am that song. And the love in this relationship was me. ‘Cause now I cannot distinguish between lies and the truth. My heart is unable to know right from wrong, unable to know if you ever loved me or just plainly lied to my face, smiling, thinking I would be yours forever. But forever is composed of nows and now I am not yours. I am a sad song. A crumbling piece of paper. I am saved and I am sane. I am a sad song on repeat. I am myself – crying through the darkness. I am a woman and I am hurt. How can I describe this any less than that? Any less than painful?
I am a woman who fell in love at the wrong time, at the wrong place with the wrong guy and that is pretty much it. I have become a sad song, a sad song on repeat.
Image source: personal archive; a picture of myself while writing
‘’Writing is just like breathing. I do not know how to hold my breath, which means I do not know how to stop writing.’’
I have loved and lost and grieved my way into writing. Like a martyr. This is not me saying I do not love writing. This is me saying that I love writing too much. Because I love feeling. Everything. And writing for me, it’s just like feeling. It comes and goes, ebbs and flows. Always changing. It expands you and your viewpoints. Yet, still constricts you to a certain moment in time, unable to leave until you have processed it on the page.
So, when you write, you get all the feels and all the struggles of the human experience and also – all the joys. Nothing is left untouched. Writing is just like life – unpredictable.
If you wish to hide or run away, writing will always bring you back – to yourself. So, I stopped trying to hide. I stopped trying to say that I am not a ‘good writer’. I stopped trying to say that ‘writing is not for me’ when it is clear that it lives under my bones. It grows in shape and size. So, I have to get the words on the page, otherwise, I’m feeling like I will stop breathing. Because writing is just like breathing. In and out. Deep breaths. Heavy breaths. Holding breaths. Writing is just letting it all go on the page.
I also need to make a confession. I stopped saying ‘I am not a writer’ when I am too much of a writer. I am way too much of a writer because I am a feeler. I feel everything 10 times more intense than the way I should feel things which means I feel things deeply.
Image source: personal archive; another picture of myself while writing
A word you say once can remain stuck in my head for an entire week– on repeat day in and day out as if it’s my anthem now. Someone being unkind to me will never go unnoticed. I can feel that anger and hatred and disappointment for weeks. I am bleeding and crying and grieving for the wars in the world, for the kids left without parents, for orphans, for women in abusive relationships, and the injustices made in the legal system. And yes, all of that can happen in one day. That’s why I have written, to chill out and manage my emotions better. Because for me, life is all about feelings. And writing helps me connect with them, process them, and give them a safe space to show themselves and take the main stage.
So, this is an accurate description of my writing. Rage. Anger. Disappointment. Happiness. Scattered memories all over the place. Images of people and places I have loved and lost without knowing why. And sometimes by clearly knowing why.
For me, writing brings me closer to life, it helps me to feel it. Distil it. Analyse it. Because writing always brings me closer to myself. To my own Knowing. To my true, authentic and unshattered self that has been hidden beneath all the social conditioning. That’s why I write – to get closer to myself, to life, to feelings, to being human. Or should I say that ‘writing makes me more human’?
It is a humbling experience because you are put face-to-face with yourself. With your own self that’s hurting or bleeding or feeling inspired by this world. And there is nothing you can hide away from here. You are safe. And free to say it – the poem that has been in your heart, the idea that got stuck in your head for way too long and you couldn’t share it, now it’s that time. It is never too late to put pen on paper and just write. And just feel. And just be human, for a while.
Image source: personal archive, Untamed book by Glennon Doyle Merton
The pain cuts deep into my heart like a knife making it rip in two and fall apart. Hopefully, for the last time.
Barely breathing, I survived another heartbreak. Another ‘I treated you like you never existed’ kind of thing. Another catastrophic breakdown and damage to my internal system. Another ‘I have no words for how much it hurts.’ But this time is different. This time my insides are trying to make peace with each other. To find equilibrum and keep me afloat so as not to drown in my broken heart.
Turns out, I’m not drowning. Not this time. I am living. Barely. I am searching for something, something to hold on to. A new sign. A different meaning to this event. A better version of myself. None of that is to be found lately, so I am dealing with life as best as I can. With an open wound at my core, bleeding with sadness. I can barely manage the bleeding, so I am trying to swim through writing blog posts and inspirational quotes. ‘Trying’ would be the appropriate word because it is all I can do lately. Losing you was like a slap to my face after I opened my heart again. Yet, here it is – another disappointment.
‘You knew it would end up this way from the very beginning’ , my brain whispers. And yes, I did know, but I still fell in love stupidly with him. It happened slowly, it happened without me noticing, but it happened. Just in the same way, the distancing happened. Talking less and less. Me getting tired of crying myself to sleep. My heart crumbled at each new girl’s name. And yes, you can say I was to blame because I knew about his girlfriend, and I did nothing. You can say I was to blame, but I loved him. Sincerely and honestly and in my own way. And the one thing I tried to maintain through everything was my dignity. I know that I loved blindly, but my love was always true. And I was always who I wanted to be. Although, sometimes, I let the red flags slide more than I should have. I acted as if I meant nothing to him when that was not the case. I let every kiss and every touch get to me as if I was being saved from my boring life. But I wasn’t. I was just being traumatised and hurt all over again. And I should have seen it coming, because I knew all the patterns, I studied all that. But emotions beat me all the time and I wasn’t thinking. I was not strategising or creating a plan. I was just loving him. But I guess this doesn’t matter, ‘cause loving someone is just never enough if you are not treated right. I wish I were stupid and did not figure out all the outings with the other girls, all the things he has been hiding. I wish I were just stupid. But I was smart, one hell of a smart woman. And I wasn’t afraid of ruining his life, because I’ve done it before so many times out of hurt and revenge and sadness. But I was not sure that I was that woman anymore. What I was, though, was the woman that protected her friends and that’s what I wanted to do. But my heart was breaking in two for myself. I was always good at protecting others, but so bad at taking care of myself. It was really sad.
People think I am strong, but they don’t know how many times my heart has fallen apart. I looked happy all the time, so it was very hard to figure that part out. But I wasn’t happy, not really. My life was falling apart bit by bit. I was falling apart. Too much stress, heartbreak and pain to handle for one person. His words meant nothing. His ‘sorries’ were erased by time. My friends’ comments over the phone told me, ‘you deserve better.’ I deserve way better and I know that, but life is not about what you deserve. Life is about lessons. Sometimes painful ones are shown when you expect the least. So, I just carried on with what I had been doing as if nothing happened. As if he did not exist. As if I was always single and ready to mingle when, in fact, my heart and my thoughts held a sacred space for him. A space that should have been given to someone else, someone genuine and loving and kind. Someone out there, just like me. But instead, it was kept on hold.
And now, I am processing the idea of clearing the space in my heart. Staring at walls. Getting it out on paper. Screaming at the top of my lungs. That was all I could do, honestly. There was nothing else.
Some things can only be left without using words. And some feelings are only meant to be felt, not explained all the time. So, dear reader, I leave you with this, in the end, with my silence.
Mădălina Daniela Dan 
