Pieces of Peace: For Every Person I’ve Been With

Photo by Andrea Pol

Photo by Andrea Pol

I was thirteen-years-old when I had my first kiss.  It was wet. I didn’t understand what was happening. Was it supposed to feel this way? I’ve watched enough teen sitcoms and romantic comedies to know how a kiss should look like. Assuming it felt as great as having a killer soundtrack while you’re making out. But there was no Sixpence the Richer playing during my first kiss. We were surrounded by our other classmates who were also curious. We were almost teenagers with raging hormones.

But it has to feel better than just wet right? I was thirteen and trying to understand my own body. Puberty for boys is discovering how to pleasure yourself. Meanwhile, girls have to go through blood once a month. We were confused on how we were supposed to feel good. For me, I thought having my first kiss would feel amazing. Instead, it was nothing but wet. The worse part was he wasn’t even my boyfriend. It was only curiosity.

Now, we are not on speaking terms. I last saw you four years ago.  It was just a wave and a simple hello. Nothing but a few seconds passing by the street. But for some reason, our mothers still talk. I am updated from time to time about where you are and how you’re doing.

I was fourteen-years-old and he was a year younger than me at the time. It felt weird being older than he was. I was not aware this was normal and that it was okay if a girl was a little older. But I kept it a secret because I was scared. It did not matter how much I liked him, what mattered was his age. Imagine being fourteen and being called a cougar. We didn’t break up because of how I felt about our minor age difference. We broke up because he called me crazy and I took offense to it.

It took me a few years to talk to you again. But all I asked was for a book and nothing else. I didn’t bother to ask how you’re doing or hows college. Nope, I just wanted to know if you had a book I needed to borrow.

I was sixteen and I was slightly clueless. It was hard for me to notice if someone is flirting with me. When I asked you who you liked, you gave me clues. I was oblivious to the fact you were trying to say it was me. I spent the past few weeks still smiling about our nine-hour conversation.  I hoped you liked me back. Well, you did but I was too late to read your subtle hints. You were already dating someone else.

I’m happy you’re with someone who was able to read you well. I treated your subtilty like some code I needed to decipher.  Though all I needed was an answer to whom you liked back in high school.

I was eighteen and it was a doozy. They told to test the waters instead I went overboard. I won’t go into detail about every person I’ve dated. Heck, if I did it would take a novel or two. But one caught my eye, he was quite the catch. He was charming and knew how to put up an act. He was an aspiring actor, perhaps he needed some practice. But I didn’t like the fact I was your test run for love scenes. Because I believed the charade up to the point I saw you kiss someone else. Drunk and trying to find motivation for your next background role.

Goodluck on your career I guess. Saw you on TV once and then I turned it off.

I think I was nineteen when I met you. You were cute, sweet, and knew how to make a girl fall. If anyone has a masters in flirtation, you’d be the one. You had me thinking you’d stick for the long run. But no, come a few days before Christmas day. You broke my heart and wrapped it in a bow. I spent months crying about what have I done wrong.  Was I too clingy or too needy? Did my depression turn you away? Or was it because I wasn’t quick to jump into bed you decided I was a waste of your time.

Now, we are sort of on speaking terms. I’ve followed you back on Instagram and friended you on Facebook. I was able to move on when I realized you were a jerk. Perhaps you’d changed but I’m not betting on second chances to see if you did.

The dreaded twenties, I hate Tinder and OkCupid. Twenty-two matches a day, gave me an interesting set of people. The people I’ve met either want hook-ups or dress me up in a metal Bikini like Princess Leia. One thing I’ve learned about online dating is to leave out you’re a fan of Star Wars. I didn’t like any of the invitations. From having sex while Darth Vader’s theme song played in the background to dressing up as Darth Maul in bed. The second one still makes me wonder how he watches Phantom Menace.

I once met a girl who told me I wasn’t a bisexual. She told me I was a confused lesbian. Another refused to date me because I’ve been with men. Even my sexuality worked against me. I never want to go back to Tinder again.

And then before I’d ask out a magician I’ve met on Tinder, an old High school friend gave me an offer. He knew of my dating history and pitched a guy he thought I’d like. I never liked blind dates but I thought what the heck. A year later, we are still together. Someone who was able to balance my crazy, understand my experiences, and love me.

We had a conversation about death the first time we met. Again we talked about death.  It’s a gruesome and depressing subject but for some reason with me, it’s a topic unavoided. He told me how he wants me to be alive and I didn’t have to die today. He wanted us to grow old together. He wanted to see where my future could take me and if he can be part of it. I cried when he said he wanted me to be alive. I’ve had others tell me this as well but he was the first boyfriend to say it too.

He is the first relationship I’ve ever had who had me unashamed of my mental illness. The first of many who didn’t see my anxiety as a character trait.  He didn’t see my depression as a burden but something to overcome. Out of everyone I’ve ever been with he made me cry because I was happy.


Goodbye Alice (Sad Truth of Us)

Photo by Tiko Giorgadze on Unsplash

we have an inevitable expiration date
at some point in our lives
we would part, the cause still unknown
there will come a day
where one of us has a piece of the other
sadly, one bigger than the other
it hurts knowing this fate
that we would only be memories
tucked into our subconscious
We will only be an anecdote
Part of small talk, chit-chat
and mentioned in conversations
The next few days, months
(hopefully years)
Would become recollections
We would be reminiscences of our youth
It pains me knowing that
we may never grow old together
we may never have our wedding dance
Or come home to our marital bed
They would turn into fantasies
Hypothetical situations, unimaginable scenarios
An imaginary world we built for ourselves
Hanging in disbelief of this uncertain expectation
Of this closing chapter
And that is the sad truth of us

An Apology, Five Years Too Late


It’s easy to say “I love you”
I love my hair, I love your outfit, I love muffins
I love waffles, I love pancakes, I love Star Wars
See how easy that is?

If someone says it isn’t easy
They’re either lying or someone broke them
I am both the liar and the bitter soul
Ask anyone and they’ll tell you my love is disposable
And you will find me easily replaceable
Because I am not worth crying over
I am not the type who is worth a song dedication
So save that Secondhand Serenade song for someone who deserves it
This heartbreaker doesn’t need a playlist

And You have permission to delete every picture we ever took
You have my permission to block me on Facebook
Because it would make things easier for both of us
You have permission to erase our conversations
Because nothing good comes from back reading 3 am messages
You have permission to delete my number
Trust me you’ll thank me when you’re holding a bottle
and your phone in the other hand
I’m saving you from uncoscious texts and intoxicated calls
So please, you have my permission to forget me

Because why would you want to remember a liar?
Why would you reminisce about someone who told you
she loved you a hundred times but never meant it
Why would you torture yourself with thoughts about what I said
Please don’t disect our memories trying to find what went wrong
Because I was the fault in every single one of them, I still am

I’m sorry for the hurt, the tears,
the words and for not loving you
I’m five years too late with this apology

I Won’t Dream Of You

It’s three in the morning
And I’m still crying
How I convinced myself
That you’re different from the rest
Was a lie I fell for
I should’ve known better
Than to sleep with words

You told me you loved me
Told me you cared for me
But you’re prince charming
With lies on a string
You keep me hanging
Keep me standing, holding on
So step off your high horse
Cuz you’re real and I’m not
Going to dream of you tonight

Take your broken promises
Take it to the heart
And never let them go
The worst part is I never lied
I meant everything I said
How you’re still smiling
Shows you never meant a thing

I lost my grip wasting it on you
I was blindsided
And time was your defense
I hope you have a conscience
Better than your reason

For The Heartbreak Kid


The hardest thing to write about is someone who did not mean to hurt you. While I’m taking tiny sips of my coffee, subtly listening to strangers conversations and getting a pop song out of my head I picture him. Maybe the song isn’t supposed to sound angry; maybe it’s a happy tune. I know I wasn’t happy seeing him kiss some other girl or flirt with different girls but I did love his attention.

Am I confusing his attention for affection? Am I still drunk when I’m technically sober?

Every sentence in my head sounds like a potential verse. And my coffee is getting cold and for once I don’t’ have ink stains on my hand. I see no progress in these lyrics instead I’m stuck in my head.

I’m usually good with words but I don’t see words helping me at the moment, they are my enemy in this situation. I know what I want to say, I know who this is dedicated for yet why am I having writers block?

I’m staring at crossed out lines that were verses rhyming like a children’s song. They are all rejections… like me.

Okay I cannot avoid being a little depressed; it’s been two weeks since that kiss that was supposedly meant for me. What should’ve been my moment was given to someone else, how did I miss that? How can I not put these emotions into good use?

I’ve written songs in worse emotional states. After a bitter break up I wrote around 5 songs in one day just to get the anger out of my system. When I was hit with a wave of unknown depression I put into melancholic lyrics. My emotions are my poetry. How is this situation any different?

I just need to concentrate… It always works I sit back watch my coffee go cold and then bam! A song has been written.

Boy… break my heart.

No. It was sewn shut by your… Okay that sounds wrong.

This is frustrating. If this was my room I’d ball up this piece of crap and thrown it at my door. But no I have to be poised with this; I turned to the next blank page and took a nice big gulp of my coffee. A little too much of a gulp that I almost choked. I want to choke out words in literary sense not literal sense.

The blank page is taunting me, the way his name did. This anger should be great inspiration; this should be great reason to write lyrics. Yet the only words that come into mind are inappropriate for anyone else to hear.

I must look crazy right now, a weird girl with her journal making facial expressions as she talks to herself in her mind. Well they should try writing this song or what is supposed to be a song.

You left me in pieces, withered with your roses.

That sounded too depressing as if I’m trying to be the alternative modern version of Edgar Allan Poe. I might as well buy a black turtleneck and fake glasses to this new dark poetic side. Because it seems I prefer to squeeze out dark climatic clichés than lyrics from my heart. Okay that itself sounded cliché but my heart is saying I’m confused with what I feel.

Should I be sad? Should I be mad? I feel mad and sad, I am frustrated but not at him more at myself. For two reasons: One being I cannot get the lyrics right and second for falling for another guy who wants to make me an option.

I am always the option, never the choice. I’ve written a dozen songs about that feeling so this should be easy. I’ve been the main attraction of assholes everywhere and I’m the idiot knowing not to fall for it but I do anyway. So this isn’t new, what he did to me is just repetition.

Practice is overrated because I’m just going through the same mistakes.

Maybe that’s why I can’t write the song. I know this emotion too well, I’ve written about it and I met the same guy with a different face. This song is supposed to be this certain guy when in fact I’ve met so many like him before that my head is telling me this is a scrapped out muse.

This song isn’t just for him; this song is for every asshole I’ve fallen for.

It took a while for me to see

His eyes are looking through me

I’m part of the audition

Trying to figure out if it’s real

Or if he’s practicing his lines

This song is for the Heartbreak Kid.



I never asked for anyone to save me
So if you’re looking for the exit sign
I’ll show you where you should walk away
This isn’t a fragile warning
It’s a fact that me and you won’t last
I’m as cold as the ice you’re breaking
If you were smart you’d end this conversation

I’m saying this straight, no codes and no game
I promise I don’t need your number or your name
The last thing i want is to replay my history
One two many times I’ve fallen
Now I’m broken and I listen to my heart less

I know i come off a little harsh
But there’s a story you’ll never know
I don’t care if you think I’m heartless
I’m too much trouble for your own good
So take what I’m saying as a lesson
Turn your back because I’m you’re next regret
If you want to avoid the pain keep the distance