Dorothy Widelka

126 Days

I lost myself when I found you. Ripped holes in the map of who I used to be and replaced every page with the promise of you. If only promises didn’t burn like the vodka I use to forget the taste of you.

You, who once promised to spend your whole life proving to me love exists, decided that I was just a drop of water, not large enough to swim in, and not enough to make you stay.

My presence never enough to cover you with warmth, only avalanches follow in my footsteps. Maybe if I spend enough time practicing, I could learn how to conform myself into whatever shape of me you need. I’ll hide my rough edges and erase a few sides until I become someone more than a stranger.

You, the protagonist and antagonist of all these poems, have deflated me into someone I no longer recognize. It’s been 126 days since I’ve looked into a mirror, that’s how many days I’ve forgotten about myself. It’s hard to believe in beauty when I’ve blindfolded myself with longing and a desire to find you again. And I want to so badly believe that you are out there putting together the torn pieces of my map and trying to locate where we buried our love. But I know that is nothing more than a fairy tale I will never live, those endings don’t come to girls like me.

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