the failings of a surgically healed heart | a collection

3 | method writer

in the summer of last year

(before i fell into a pit of depression)

i wanted to fall in love.

not for an authentic reason,

but for research purposes.

//

this an experiment; a primary source where i

collect data and draw conclusions

for a manuscript i was working on at the time –

thought if i became my art

(a method writer, if you will)

my commitment would show in my craft

//

(spoiler alert: i never finished the manuscript)

//

that summer,

was one of moods swings and

a blooming misery in my gut.

//

that summer,

we drank so much diet lemonade

we were sure we'd get cancer

because of how cheap it was.

//

that summer, 

we lost one friend

to the woes of less than perfect exams results;

gained another one and a half

because of the unforetold allure of hill climbing

of which my heart condition and my father,

selfish as usual,

did not let me be a part of.

//

that summer,

my best friend tried to convince herself

she didn't like her now boyfriend

because she couldn't face rejection

//

that summer,

i did face rejection

from the half a friend we gained

told him i liked him even though i didn't

only for him to respond: "i was hot"

but didn't he like me that way

listed off a bunch a reasons it wouldn't work,

his catholic mother,

my personality, etc.

//

yet still, we sexted for longest week of my life,

because he still wanted my body

and i mistook that to mean he wanted me

rubbed his leg until he was hard and

later had him tell me how jerked off (twice) as a result,

lied about my own masturbation habits

so he didn't feel awkward –

//

did not feel the need to climax until

i called the whole thing off

//

that summer i learnt every boy is a fuckboy -

especially the "nice" ones.

//

that summer i learnt for girls like me

love works best as a hypothesis

//

that summer,

i learnt you can't force someone to love you

and you can't force yourself to love someone else.

//

that summer, 

the smallest part of me that was still a hopeless romantic

was stomped out

like the ghost of a (camp)fire.

//

and when it came time for autumn:

i was the most miserable i had ever been and

still without a finished manuscript.

- conclusion: real life is far more disappointing than fiction could ever imagine

--

apologies for the delayed update i had to reshuffled the structure of the this poem in some parts.

moreover, this has to be one of my favourite poems I've written ever and i truly hope all of you enjoy it too