And the worst part isn’t that I fell in love with you, no.
The worst part isn’t that I knew how it’ll end; that I saw all the signs, predicting the inevitability of it all; that I chose to continue with the fall knowing how much it’ll hurt when I crash. The worst part isn’t that after all this time, there’s a piece of you stashed in some deep corner of my heart, never to be taken out again. That it throbs every now and then, almost burning my lungs.
No, the worst part is that even after all this time, every piece of poetry I ever spill, each and every love song that I scribble in my notebooks, they’re all about you. Even after all this time, the love I describe is the love I felt with you. And I know, I know for a fact that the love you gave me was only an ounce of what I truly deserved. I know for a fact that there exists something a million times more intense, more real.
Yet the definition of love I have is the one that you’ve introduced me to. That something so magical has been tainted by everything you’ve done and said. That even after all this time, everything I know about it is what I’ve grasped from you. And it’s terrible. It’s so, so, terrible because every time I sit down to write about what love truly feels like, I only end up writing about the fucked up, half-assed love that you threw my way.
The worst part is that fucked-up, half-assed love felt right. And that it carves its way in every word that I write with my ink-stained fingers.
© Copyright Shreya Pandey