I thought that I had survived you.
Thought that the pictures of you
Ceased to evoke bitterness in my heart.
We moved on, our skins in the past,
And yet you and I resurface and it feels like a dystopia.
I preach to myself to not run away, to not erase
All my heartaches and stabwounds, to endure
Our history, our betrayals and hopeless behaviours.
I try to contextualise myself within the frame you offered
Me, the cage, the lack of air, the impossible expectations.
I could never give you happiness, self-love or a purpose.
You loathed yourself beneath the red lipstick and ideals,
Unfelt. I could never help you, we drank it all away, the
Glorious hardships, unwilling to grow up, spread our wings,
Into the darkness, adore it from afar, too scared to head toward it.
What happened to us? I can’t quite put my finger on it.
Maybe everything is still infected or wasted away, no words
Are needed anymore, we did everything wrong, we were never meant to be.
You never got to know me, I never let you in, never let myself in, really.
I had no idea who I was, and even less so next to you.
“Portrait of a Young Woman” by Antonio del Pollaiuolo (1429-1498)