I don’t think I’ve written poetry before, and the reason I do now is because I need to sugar-coat my feelings. To write them without subtlety means I’ve lost another love, and I can’t bear that. Now I write for the art of it, making it my musing, so I can convince myself I’m enjoying the hopelessness of it, romanticizing it, sensationalizing it, so I can find contentment—contentment in the idea of being in love with your impossibility.
How you had all of me, I will never know.
If you can go days without speaking to me, that is all I need to know about where your feelings lie.
I stayed in bed and grieved the loss in my head. I went out with people, one after the other, a carnival of men, and I was bored of them before they even spoke.
I bear this loss with my whole heart.
She Was Sea 