Let's just say that ours is a beautiful instance. A sudden heartbeat in an instinctive moment. Just like everyone else, I believe that everything happens for a reason. I may not know why at this point in time, but sure, I fell in love. And though that's something worth celebrating, I never thought it would hurt like that.
I was on the brink of burning all my poems, essays, and stories about you when I realized a fact. There were too many of them that I just can't. You know why? I wasn't scared of burning a thousand memories. But because I loved the plot, I loved the metaphors, and most of all, I loved the magic of my hand that made me write them. Sure, it could feel like I was burning my old self, the one who loved you true.
Between those lines was you and me. Burning away those papers would never reduce the memories to dust, even if they turned into ash. You will always remain that sudden heartbeat and that indescribable heartache. You don't need to wonder if I ever hated you because I don't hurt people like you do. The last thing I wanted was to be the same as you.
I need to stop writing about you because it's never good to live through everything again. I don't want a bruised soul. I don't like the feeling of being a martyr. No one ever wanted to feel like one or be called one.
I need to stop writing about you because I don't want to feel anything about you anymore. The more I write about you, the more I chain my soul onto something that won't let me go. I have to make a move for myself because it's the only thing I can control. Pain, anger, or guilt—anything—I don't want to burden my heart with these overloaded baggage.
I need to stop writing about you because I don't want to spend my nights forever brooding over you again. I don't want to wonder anymore if I ever did something that made me deserve this kind of pain. That's the thing about love, it's not always worth the fight. Sometimes, you just got to let go and move on.
I need to stop writing about you because I don't want to keep holding onto something that only makes me feel less than what I am. Because I'm worth it and I shouldn't be made to feel otherwise. Yes, you were that special, if it makes you feel good to know. Do I sound bitter now that my words are razor-sharp and cuts through you? You deserve it. Forgive me, but this is my only consolation after all. No intensity of metaphors could ever mask this truth: You pretended to love me. And I was a fool to believe.
I need to stop writing about you because writing means adding more stacks of paper to burn. Adding more of myself to burn.
Written by Danica C. Cayme.