The war has ended.

“Everybody knows that the war is over. Everybody knows that the good guys lost.” – Sigrid

Day one.

She felt the walls around her collapse, her eyes refused to dry, her lips could not stop quivering, and she was unable to move. So, she sat on the floor, her back against the bathroom door and cried as she read over and over the text her boyfriend’s sister had sent. She felt numb, and in pain at the same time. The tears wouldn’t stop, and she just could not gather enough strength to text back. This wasn’t possible. He wouldn’t leave her like this.

How could he?

They had just spoken an hour ago. He had told her things that he had never said before, and one of those things was that he loved her. And it felt like he meant it. She had believed him and so she had spent the time after, just smiling and thinking of him. The days ahead seemed to be happy, because she thought he would be with her. Now, everything was dark. She did not know what she would do when she could move, and she did not know if she would move. Her heart was beating but she didn’t feel alive.

She closed her eyes and saw him standing near the elevator, a smile on his lips on the day she had first seen him. He was looking at her and had no intention of keeping it a secret. She remembered him walking up to her and telling her that she was beautiful. He made it sound like something she could believe in. And so that day, when she stood in front of the mirror and looked at herself, she saw that she was. It was a new feeling, and it made her feel warm and loved.

She opened her eyes as the image of his smile burned through the tears, and made the pain unbearable. She read the text again. Was this really it? She knew she would not love any other guy the way she had loved him. She heard his voice, a low whisper of the past, telling her he loved her too. And that made it possible for her to get up. She had to see him. She somehow stood up, and saw the mess she had become in the mirror above the sink. Her eyes wet with black mascara smeared around it.

She started the tap, and water gushed out which she cleaned her face with. Tears still fell as she washed her face. And so she gave up. She closed the tap, and fumbled to open the door. Her hands were shivering, and her veins felt like ice was flowing through them. She put on a jacket even though it was sunny outside. As she walked out, she read the message one last time before she put the phone in her pockets and turned the cold knob on the main door. She knew he had cancer, but no.

“He’s gone.”

Day fifty-six.

She’s okay. She survived. But her old-self did not. She has a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, and words that mean nothing. She keeps everyone who loves her at a ‘safe distance’. She is still fighting in a war that had been lost months ago.

“That’s the trouble with humans; we never see when the war has ended.” – Erin Van Vuren


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How to: Be poetry.

What makes you poetry? Let me know in the comments section below. Enjoy!


Hold a paw, and wake up to the woof or the meow of a furry cushion.
Travel, to the closest grocery store open past midnight and buy that candy you used to love as a kid.
Feel.
Let your chapped lips, which has been a Chandler (Straight, but seemed to be otherwise), light up into a crescent moon more often than you used to.
Cry into the lap of your pillow, don’t deprive your cheeks of the season of this rain.
Pick the scab on the wound you got as a hopeless romantic, and fall in love before it heals.
Realize that you have rhyme and reason in this universe.
Find the fire of your soul and let it burn your regrets as it crackles a song into your veins.
Show kindness as a first language in your degree of life. Water a plant and feed a duck for you never know what they’ll do to you in a parallel universe.
Be you.


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Languages, medicines and magicians.

What has music been for you? Let me know in the comment section below! Enjoy reading. Instagram handle: @myspirals


“Music is a safe kind of high.” – Jimi Hendrix

Music is a language, a medicine and a magic trick. Dance to it.

  • Music was his mother-tongue. His tongue fumbled when he spoke English as if it were a foreign language that he hadn’t heard all his life, but when he was alone, he hummed a tune and did not miss a single note. He stuttered and shied away from conversations with strangers, but sang songs with a broad grin around camp fires. When he wasn’t feeling alright, he would shut out completely and listen to music as he thought and thought about what had gone wrong, but you could find small clues hidden in his playlist to make him feel alright.
  • Her soul had been crushed into absolute pieces and her heart had cuts all over. There was a constant ache, that seemed to run like blood in her veins and pillows couldn’t drown it out. But earplugs seemed to drive the pain away completely, or at least numb it. As the lyrics stopped her mind from wandering about, and the music brought her a much-needed gift, she could smile without wanting to scream. Music was her band-aid and no one could rip it off her scars. For her, music was like a steady dose of pain-killers and peace. Music was the only pillow that could drown out the screams, and it was the only shoulder she could cry on.
  • He was broke and broken, but managed to get into the bar right across the street. He needed to feel lost and alive, and so he stepped onto the dance-floor swarmed with broken hearts and night-outs. The music was loud enough to make him disappear as his feet moved about in an unsteady pace. The broken pieces of his heart rattled against each other, but no one could hear it. The pieces slammed against each other and broke into smaller pieces until all that was left was dust. He smiled as he took the dust and blew on it, as if it were fairy-dust and his wishes were going to come true.

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Whisky Words: Project (14)

This is Submission FOURTEEN of The Whiskey Words. The Whiskey Words is a writing project (and a giveaway). The winner will be announced on 1st of April.


Revenge I seek.

Crimson lips fade to pale,
Confessions of Love – a sting in the tale,
It was meant for me, I know it’s so,
Another path, you must go,
A heart of ice calls your name,
No choice you have, to play the game,
Stiff and rigid you play along,
Conform and dance to her merry song,
I watch her eyes, her twitching lips,
Her twisted lies and sarcastic quips,
I stand and stare in disbelief,
Holding on, in silence, to my grief,
Off you go to the maidens lair,
I know in your heart, I must be there?
Can’t you run and escape her grasp,
If only you had a looking glass,
See the story how it should be,
Then you’d know, you should be with me,
What’s her power, has she cast a spell?
Is there a  secret, never to tell?
life without you seems so bleak,
Just walk away, why so weak?
Do not laugh and frolic with her,
Remember me, I called you sir?
You promised me love and fairy tale,
My Prince, my knight, but now you bail,
You said you loved me, I believed it was true,
Now I’m confused cos she is with you,
You’ve abandoned me now but what is the cost,
I’m angry inside, broken and lost,
I want to scream, and call you out,
Please sir please sir I want to shout,
I feel like a child, vulnerable and small,
You’ve got nothing to say, nothing at all?
I’ve been discarded left here on the path,
Let me tell you sir, you will feel my wrath,
You’ve used and abused me, I know I am right,
Hang your head in shame Don’ t put up a fight,
You said that you loved me, I thought it was so,
Silly girl,  stupid, now I must go,
I’ll hatch a plan , revenge will be sweet,
I won’t be so nice, the next time we meet!
My heart,  it is broken,  you can’t comprehend,
The damage you’ve caused  – you were never my friend.

 – Carrie sherbourne (blog)

Whisky Words: Project (13)

This is Submission THIRTEEN of The Whiskey Words. The Whiskey Words is a writing project (and a giveaway). The winner will be announced on 1st of April.


Hangover

Last night wasn’t the first time I’ve dreamt of you,
But I have never before woken,
With such a lingering sadness on my tongue,
That tastes of all the words we left unsaid,
And my head heavy with memories,
I had attempted to forget long ago.

Yet I know it is no one’s fault but my own,
For lying awake until five in the morning,
Allowing myself to be intoxicated,
By far too many thoughts of you.

– Kirstan Decker (blog)