A Poetic Story by Jon W.
The old cliché he broke my heart didn’t apply here. My heart did break, shattered into a trillion tiny, jagged pieces, in fact. But he wasn’t the one who broke it. I was. And with the shards of my heartbreak, I stabbed him. And soon, his was broken too. We both wept tears and drowned in the puddles they created that night. And accompanied by a howling wind and a savage symphony of rain on the cement, I heard the sound of two hearts breaking.
The little boy who lived inside my mind, residing in the darkest depths of my ever-shrinking humanity, he knew of love. And heartbreak. Longing. Regret. At least he thought he did. But all he really knew was the corrupted lies force-fed to him by the media’s manipulative silver spoon. He knew of love to be eternal. An invisible, impenetrable force that always, always prevailed. He knew heartbreak to be tears rolling down your cheeks, a look of sadness painted in your eyes. But he didn’t know. That is what he was tricked into knowing. He was just a little boy.
And this was the type of story that started as a romantic comedy and ended as a dramatic thriller. It was a blackened, decrepit work of tarnished art. Painted with four hands that had felt the same pain and led them through the same murky shadows of life.
Four hands that caressed and tenderly massaged in the beginning. And by the end, clawed and choked.
How? That is the question that poisons my dreams and turns them to nightmares. How can a love, once so pure and so genuine, turn in to something so sinister and contagiously toxic? Because, you see, it wasn’t that the love faded or ever went away. No, unfortunately the passion and intensity that once fueled skipping heartbeats and twinkling glances became the fuse to a much darker flame.
The love was not gone.
It was misplaced. And mistaken for apathy and carelessness.
So now, after the minutes ticked endlessly into years and the eyes that started it all became dried up wells of forgotten hope, I sit in a chair and write.
And I’m free.