“You know when you write for too long the side of your fingers chafe, it will be red,  slightly tender, and warm. Your skin will repair itself eventually, but then you would write for too long again, your skin would chafe, your skin would heal. Overtime you would have calluses, and your skin wouldn’t chafe anymore. Calluses are tough, rough, and they decrease the eventual pain.”

“What is your point?”

“Don’t give me hope. Enough hope that I may decide to do something about the calluses. Don’t make me forget all my scars, especially if you’re going to leave me with new wounds. I can deal with my old pain but I don’t think I can take new ones, much more so if it’s you who inflicted it.”

“I can’t promise you. I can’t promise you anything, actually. I can’t promise that you won’t get hurt, I can’t promise to not give you hope when there’s none, I can’t. But I will try, I will try to do my best not to hurt you, us. Pain is inevitable my dear, but I will try to soften it. Even if it means I will be hurting more. You’re not the only one with scars, with calluses, but I will be willing to take more wounds for you.”


To the boy I loved from a long time ago

I thought of you today and my heart didn’t do its usual dance, which is good, I guess, because maybe it means that I am finally, finally over you. Getting over you was a long, arduous journey. Not because I miss all the things that we had, which is impossible because we never really had anything, but because I am plagued by the endless probabilities that we could have had.

I can’t really remember much about you now. I am not sure if what I do remember are facts or just fabrications of my infatuated mind. I forgot why I liked you in the first place.

When you found your love and I lost mine, the world felt like a dark place. I felt as if I have been robbed of something that I do not even own, something that I am not sure that I even really want in the first place: us, together. It was a phantom pain, a pain felt by something that ceased to exist.

My dramatic teenage heart wept for those times that it felt that there was almost something. In retrospect, looking at it through the cold cynism of adulthood, there was nothing, absolutely nothing.

It was still painful losing you, yes. But it was not the sort of stabbing pain that I felt when I first saw you with her. The pain when I thought that you betrayed me, which is funny because there was nothing to betray in the first place. It mellowed out into a dull ache eventually. The kind of pain that you are not sure is there until you really think about it.

We were friends before I made the mistake of crossing the line. It’s not hard to do, you were heartbreakingly perfect. You gave mixed signals, or I just thought you did. What can I do but read into them, I am a female after all, our minds jump from friendship to matrimony in an instant. Or so you say.

I ended our friendship. You found her, the one that completes you. I am here picking up the pieces of something that isn’t broken.