I've been in love. The pain is exquisite. It makes you hurt over their pain. It makes you hurt over them, knowing you can’t be theirs.
Somewhere along the way, someone decided you wouldn’t be together. Some cruel cosmic force said that you wouldn’t be happy in such a way.
May as well give up on love and settle for sex. You could try giving it a go with a new one, but they wouldn’t have your heart as intensely, as fully, as wholly as the other one does. You know this by the pangs it goes through when you think of that one. That one for you. Irreplaceable, him.
For me, it’s a him.
The pangs my heart goes through, psychosomatic, neurogenic. They make one wonder if one can die of a broken heart. Then, whilst looking information up on Google, one’s mind wanders to the topic, and suddenly it pops up on the screen: Takotsubo cardiomyopathy. Broken heart syndrome. They say on the page it’s temporary. You laugh to yourself and think, “Temporary, my ass.” You’ve been pining over the same one for years now, hardly temporary.
As much as there’s literal bruising on the walls of your heart over that one, as much as you’re sure it’s eating away at you year after year. When the question comes you realize you wouldn’t give it up, that you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world because at least it means you’re alive and that you love. Knowing you have that capacity to love, there’s a solace in it.
My heart is hungry. It gnaws at me like nothing else ever has, ever could. Such hunger. If one were to draw a picture of my heart with a mouth, it would be a great, giant, maw of one that took up the entire heart.
Yes, this hunger gives him power over me. I doubt he even wants it. I doubt he even considers he has it in his day. That someone he rejected years ago pines over him wouldn’t matter much to him. A thought that was dismissed quickly.
This is where the temptation comes in to wish something horrible on him, but your heart reminds you that’s not what you’d really want and that’s not who you want to be. You want only to be the cause of his happiness, not his pain. You can’t even be the cause of his happiness, though knowing he exists creates your own.
You can hope he’s with someone who loves him as much as you do, though you doubt if anyone else could. Some days, it’s a labor to even lift your chest back up in standing up from practically collapsing almost fully to the floor, so heavy feels your heart in its pain over him. Your pain. Your burden you accept fully because you’ve already learned the hard way that if you try to suppress it, it will simply come back at you with even fuller force.
That man. He can do things to me I’d never let anyone else have the power over me to do. I write of him even now, years after I first fell for him and nothing in my heart has changed, or will, or could over him.
I am his puppet. His emotional puppet. He can pull me by the heart strings whenever he likes and yet it means nothing to him. He goes about his day, unaware of this power. He probably has a new love in his life. He said so even then that he was sort of seeing someone.
It felt even in that moment like someone had shot me through the heart with an emotional bullet. Even after that, the bullet formed itself into a dagger that twists further into my heart. I feel it, emotionally and physically.
My broken heart is my echoing of him. It’s all that’s left to me of him.