Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Tell Me How Long, Before The Last One?

I took twenty tests,


not pregnancy,

or coronavirus)

because I thought it would be easier to leave you,

if the internet told me.

It sided with you,

I assume they saw your eyes,

or heard you sweetly singing off key,

in the car,

and thought

“How could you ever,

ever let him go?”

but sometimes,

you just see the signs,

even when you drive by,

for a little while,

until they blur into the background,

when your eyes say

“No hope,

no harm,

just another false alarm.”

“It must be him,

or I shall die”

I sing to myself,


no shade)

and then,

I am not dead,

but I’m entombed in awareness,

of how far I’ve fallen,

in every sense,

because I,

like the internet,

obsessed over the little reasons I should stay,

instead of the flags,

the signs,

the spell checked and perfected statement,

I tell myself I’ll send you,

when I finally snap,

to inform you that I have come to terms,

with the end of our terms of endearment.

It stares at me,

every now and again,

and I start to wonder if I’ll be okay,

all alone,

in the world,

with wide eyes,

full of tears.

I normally watch Bridget Jones,

and the feeling subsides,

because we all know I’m not going anywhere,

too attached to the cage I created for myself,

even attached to crying the night away,

but every now and again,

I stare back,

and wonder if I’ll save myself,

this time.

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