something old, something new, some plain sorrow, something blue.

i thought about using new words for you,
but the situation is not new.
we broke up a hundred times before.
i thougt about creating new rhymes for you,
but the feeling of things not adding up,
of everything sounding wrong ist not new,
so i won't do that.

i thought about just using an old blog post for you,
because heartbreak is always the same,
so why not just re-use every old poem that i wrote
with tears in my eyes and blood streaming down my body -
well i cant do that, because every asshole that i dated before you
was a sweet gentleman in comparison to you,
every abuser in my life was a kind friend
in comparison to how you treated me.

i thought about using a new plattform,
maybe a new diary or notebook to document our story,
but oh boy,
i would have to tell so many lies
to fill those blank pages with words worth reading,
i would almost tell as many lies as you.

i also thought about writing with a new pen,
as if the fresh ink would distract the reader
from the naive protagonist, the poor girl
who was so in love with a boy and human kind and the good in people
that she would just accept everything he did to her,
as long as he did it in the name of love.
she would patiently wait for every punch in the face
because he kissed each bruise afterwards
and smile about every knife in her stomach,
that he stabbed into her and slowly turned,
as long as he put his dick inside her, too.
But even white ink on white paper couldnt hide his crimes.

i thought about writing with a new attitude, a forgiving one,
warm and full of love for memories that never happened
and lies that i told myself to keep me warm at night,
when you didnt hold me.
but then i would be just like you,
gaslighting myself, lying and betraying the person i should love the most,
being the unloyal bastard that i wasted almost two years on.
and thats something i never want to be again.

i thought i admired you, i thought i respected you
and wanted to be more like you, but i was wrong.
i thought my only chance to be loved by you was to become like you,
but the more i behaved like you, the more you hated me -
well dear. i wonder why.
i let you take away the best of me.
you almost got away with making me cold and uncaring,
judgmental and mistrusting, a coward and a cheater.
but i didnt let you win.

in the end, i thought about not writing about you at all,
because you're worth none of my work,
and every word is already spoken
and i have nothing left to say,
but i dont write for you to feel special or to pity me or to take the blame,
i write for myself, because i deserve the closure
and i write for every other girl, that might be unlucky enough to meet you,
and i just want to tell her, run, because you deserve so much better.