Alcohol and Tramadol

Washing ashes down the sink,
as though it would always be so easy
to wash away memories of you
and everything you meant to me.
Finding all the lovesick notes,
crumpled and faded under your bed
– at least, I imagine all the words I wrote
now mean as much to you as the words I said.

Words like “I love you”, I know mean little to you now
soulmates no longer, or that’s how it seems
all the carefully constructed speeches and promises
now lie strewn around us, torn apart at the seams,
and the one thing you never considered
was that I could be hurting as much as you
that I could be regretting every last moment
I could be hating myself for everything I put you through.

Hurting myself to forget the pain,
and pills to help me sleep at night
how could you believe that I knew it would happen;
and that this was something I thought was right?
Alcohol and Tramadol,
quick fixes which never seem to last
uneasy sleep and confused dreams,
and morning always comes too fast.

I slide further downwards and I don’t want to stop,
this is all I believe I ever deserved,
bittersweet lullabies and a twist in the tale
how can you say that I never cared?
Three weeks by the window,
three weeks on the floor,
21 days in the corner,
1260 minutes by the door.

Waiting impatiently for your call,
knowing I could mean so little to you
compared to my feelings, which never changed
despite everything we put each other through.
Despite it all, I still reach out,
I still never felt safer than I do by your side
I still think of you last thing at night
I still want you, and only you, to be mine.

Washing my hands but I’ll never come clean,
I’ll always be stained by all that I did
it was never as easy as you’d like to think
I always told you the truth, more than I hid.
Lovesick letters, secreted in books,
where you’ll never see my weakness for you
I kept the letters, the pictures, all the photographs
despite everything we put each other though.

(c) 2008

2008 was the year of poetry. Clichéd late-night ramblings fueled by painkillers and cheap bottles of red wine. Cigarette burns on the PVC bedroom window frame and knocking myself out with tranquilisers to hide from the inevitable breakdown. Things with O were coming to an end and his habit of breaking up with me then coaxing me back into bed – speaking of how he couldn’t live without me – confused everything to the point where I fell apart entirely. Poetry was the only way I could stay in reality. 

I cheated on him; slept with a 45 year old man. He cheated on me; throwing himself at a nineteen year old. Everything was messed up. We never recovered. 

I’m glad. 

I have S now.

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36 Comments

  1. Sweetie, wholehearted love and hugs to you from this side of the pond. Your words speak volumes; I’m sorry for the hard, hard luck or result or whatever you want to call it, and I am lighting my Ganesha candle right now, to help remove obstacles from your life. Hang in, my friend.

  2. I really liked this! I have boxes and boxes of writings and letters and poems from my pain filled past. Misery can be such a Muse, but ah so can love and self-discovery.
    You’re quite talented, I really look forward to reading more. Thanks for reaching out. :)

  3. The poem was a recitation of my life as it is at present. I was astounded to learn that I’m not the only one who feels as I do and has faced the same challenges I’m facing now. I’d say more, but I’m still tending the tender spots where a certain person used to reside in me. I am lost in general, but I am really lost for words. Thank you for giving OUR feelings a voice.

  4. And this is gorgeous now. I hope S always some space and so do you. It took me twenty years to recover from J. Just when I thought it would never happen, I found S. I tell you what though…this poem rocks…severely. It’s not often love poetry works out…too much internal. This one cuts through all that rubbish and lays out what is there when people break up. It’s very good!

  5. Hi halfway! I am writing to ask: Would you mind if I re-blogged this poem? I’m more than happy to link to your site. It’s just that this so completely resonates with my life that it’s both cool and spooky at the same time. Don’t ya love it when that happens? :D If you’d rather I directed readers to this page, that’s fine too. Whatever your preference, as a fellow writer, I am more than happy to abide.

    • Yes they’re okay, thank you:)

      And thank you; it’s strange, I never thought of these being poetry. They were just things I wrote (usually typing on my cheap mobile phone) while I was stressed. I’m glad – in a way – that you’ve been there yourself. Not glad that you had to experience it, but that you understand.

      • i think one of the benefits of living long enough is that you find a way of seeing how all experiences have merit – sometimes painful but always learning from them. i began with poetry a a survival tool. when there was nothing at least i had writing to do. kept the isolation from being too overwhelming. most of the time…. now the dog days are over

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