My heart never got first aid.

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(i) I made you a person you weren’t, within my head, to feel better about myself. I pretended that you were better than you were, looked for reasons that you never had and forgot the promises you never kept. 
(ii) I ignored the tragedies that you walked around with. I noticed the uneven sounds of your footsteps but I always tried to match mine with yours instead. 
(iii) I carried a first aid kit around for my heart, but I consumed all of it on yours, when you looked away. 
(iv) I forgave you in apologies you never uttered. I knew you meant well, I thought you did. 
(v) I read the letters you never wrote, one each week. They made me want to make you stay. 

(vi) I called out your name when you were half out the door. I pretended that you turned around and said goodbye. 
(vii) I whispered your name when you were gone, I wrote the words you whispered back and pretended that the paper wasn’t empty. 
(viii) I made a paper plane out of it and sent it after you, hoping when it returned, I’d see your name signed in cursive on it. 
(ix) I never saw the paper plane again. 
(x) I made another one and told myself that you’d sent it back. 
I almost believed that too. 

_my heart never got first aid. 

National Poetry Writing Month, Day 26. 

Poetry prompt: “find what you love, 
and let it kill you.” 

Charles Bukowski, 1978.
A dedication to my favourite poets. (part II)


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