a hundred days of happiness: what day am i on?

i haven’t blogged in a while.
i’m not sure if my hundred days are over yet, but it sure feels that way. 

this piece is a prose and a poem.

november.
(and maybe this should read like a diary.)

i want to take back
the meaningless empty
and cradle my heart
in arms that are worthy
of a love well spent
not on alcohol and drugs
but love, save the empty
and i’m just a lie.

it’s twenty-eleven and i’m waiting
in the cold
stoned out of my mind
back against bark
and i still feel the rough cement
that comes from
falling at a breakneck speed
from the high you thought
would last forever
and i watched you soar
further and further away
climbing the horizon until
you were nothing more than a spark 

and i found your note.
did you know that?
i found it in a dusty corner in my room
the day we packed up and moved on

i’ll never say the words you left because i knew from the beginning
but you couldn’t blame me from trying
to spare myself the ache that would come
when you inevitably realized i wasn’t perfect.

all i did was speed up the process.

i found myself in sand covered beaches
the summer you went away
and i covered myself in colours
painting the wind
with my briny smile
and he smiled back
so we fell in lust
and talked marriage.

i ran my fingers through his hair
and sang him nursery tales 
picture-perfect families that i made up in my head
and lies are scary
because if you tell them often enough,

you’ll start to believe them yourself. 

it’s november again.
and the skies are empty
like my hollowed out chest.

last week i went home with an unfamiliar face
and he took from me what i never wanted to give
and the next morning i woke up
and my reflection was a perfect replicate of

how i actually felt.

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