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THE NEW COLOR.

imageLetting go. Letting go. Letting go.
Letting go.

Fashioned with the essence of her feelings, a new color she had made. Dipping the tip of the brush that was her self-respect, she had made him portraits of her heart. They showed the deepest darkness that resided in the crevices of the blood pumping, overhyped version of the organ.

Dripping the thick red drops of her life blood, she had made paintings that were now the ashes accumulating around the fire she had started with gasoline laced with hatred he oozed and poison he hurled at her. The beauty that she had brought to life with the heart blood that with every pump screamed of her adoration for him was nothing more than ashes of her heart now.

Staring at the flames dancing, as if rejoicing in her slow demise, her need to get back up and paint the world an opaque so dark that nobody would see anything but her brave, young heart, roared. She wasn’t a lowly shell of a being who would let go of the beauty that was her just because she knew how this world works now. She was a fire that wouldn’t die just as easily.

And, so to keep it going, she threw the past as wood, sprinkled with the very color she had fashioned with the essence of her feelings. The roaring amber was a sight to behold. With hair flying in the wind of courage and eyes sparkling with the gold of the fire, she became a new person. She became a person she could be proud of. She became a person who created entire galaxies of memories to fill up the deep, dark pit where her heart once beat, echoing his name. Now, it echoed her own.

-a-

Poetry

Rules to Appreciate a Sexist Joke

One,

When a funny sexist joke is told, laugh.

Ha. Obviously. Laugh out loud.

Laugh so much

Tears stream down your brown cheeks

Making tracks in the thin, uneven terrain

Of your self-worth

So it solidifies the fact

That you should have no self-worth.

What’s the sense

In the useless sense of self-worth

Some women strut around with anyway?

Two,

Always, and I mean,

ALWAYS Compliment the joke.

And, the one who told the joke.

Surreptitiously slipping

“Women belong in the kitchen”

In a totally unrelated conversation

Takes such clever thinking on a person’s part.

Don’t ever open your mouth

To say a bad word about the beautiful joke.

You don’t want to seem sensitive and intolerant,

Do you? DO YOU?

Three,

Leave your brain cells in a closet.

Without a key.

“Jokes are meant to be taken in a funny way!”

Four,

Don’t try to tell the joke teller

They’re being a sexist asshole.

They WILL question your sensibilities

Because apparently, you didn’t put your brain to see

If it was “worthwhile” doing anything.

And, they WILL reprimand you by asking,

“Wasn’t it simpler just to laugh”.

Five,

Appreciate without question.

Applaud without hesitation.

Laugh without brain function.

And, never ever question them

About how their brain could come up with

Something so pathetically insensitive.

Don’t remind them

They are highly educated people

With the huge responsibility of

Educating the others about equality,

If you aren’t ready to hear the retort

“The highest result of education is tolerance

And you should develop some”.

Don’t tell them you aren’t educated enough

To laugh at the sexist chauvinistic fucking joke.

And, don’t you dare tell them

That every fucking joke,

Any sexist joke,

Is not fucking funny.

Emotions

Only ever you.

Source: Pinterest

It took me months to let you go.

After the last love poem you ever wrote for me, I tried to find the same ethereal beauty in writings of others. They were beautiful. But they weren’t yours. Nobody could write poems like you do. Only ever you.

After the last fight we had, you called me names, I whined and whined, I tried to find the words that would call me silly and still tell me they love me for who I am. No words were the perfect balance of “You are stupid” and “You have a beautiful smile”. Only ever you.

After the final good byes, filled with remorse and tears spilling all over, I tried to find the same hey, beautiful in every greeting, in every hello. None of the words seemed sincere enough. None of them yours. Only ever you.

After the last text you ever sent, I tried to find your mark on everything. I stalked you on your social media accounts, I stalked the kind of music you listen to, I stalked all the words you ever said. It wasn’t you. Only a memory of you. Only ever you.

After the last time I typed your name in the search box and had my fill of your name all over the cursed screen, I thought of texting you once again. Maybe we could make do. Maybe we could work out. I had been too adamant in my refusal to accept you. You had been too insistent our time is now. Maybe you were right. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have listened to you. Only ever you.

After thinking of you for months and months, I suddenly realised I had no more tears left to cry, I had no understanding of poetic words anymore, I found no joy in lovely hellos these days, you haven’t posted on any of your pages in months now, and I knew I was right afterall. This was my wake up call. You had been special, and I had loved you for who I thought you were. Only ever you.

But you weren’t a match for what my mind had conjured over time. Not in the least. You were a figment of my imagination. And, like everything imaginary, it hurt to let you go. You were mine. And, you were beautiful. But you weren’t real.

Those poems were oversent, those hellos overused, those compliments generic, the memories of you meddled with by my need to hold on to the perfection of you a little while longer, and your exclamations of us belonging together as untrue as they come.

It became easier to take a deep breath and it became easier to let you go.

We weren’t meant to be afterall.

Poetry

Weight of her Soul’s Words.

Groaning joints

And whimpering cries

Later, she

Realised she needed

To relieve herself

Of the weight of

Her soul’s words.

Fingers swollen with

Golden sparks of

Poetries, she

Put a pen to paper

And let go of

The heavy words

Which lit up the

Skies a

Glimmering

Onyx.

Poetry

Embracing her Demons.

And as she ran

Far far away

With her demons giving

Chase relentlessly,

She realised she

Couldn’t run from

Them.

They lived inside her.

She turned around

And threw her arms wide.

She was ready to accept

Herself as

She was.

Completely.

Poetry

Foundation of Love.

When I’d climbed over

The rubble of my aspirations

As the earthquake of betrayal

Had shaken my being,

The house made of lies and old wounds,

And the attention I’d used as

A salve to seal the cracks and hold

Was a poor alternative to the foundation

Of Love houses are built on.

This house was doomed to fall.

It hadn’t been a home.

Poetry

Not ready to Move On.

Angry with

The past and

All its spoils

She kept pushing

It away.

She wasn’t ready

For the bone-deep

Hurt to engulf

Her.

She wasn’t ready

For the gloating.

She wasn’t ready.

She wasn’t sure

She would ever

Be ready.