You tell yourself that you’re doing it for the best. But that doesn’t make you any less of a coward. You tell yourself that there’s no future for the two of you; you’re ten years younger, she has two kids, there are literally seven seas between the two of you, not to mention the vast gap of culture, creed and religion.

But you are the lesser one, the weaker one for breaking up from the inside, for getting cold feet.  Seldom it is that one gets requited love as reciprocated as this. And one is a fool for letting go of it.

What makes you break up from the inside?

As you walk away from her, leaving her alone, crying

Each step you take makes you ache; with each stride

You tell yourself that it wasn’t due to lack of trying

You delete all her chats, all her crying messages

You block her on all media, social and private

A dystopian city, marred with emotional wreckages

There was love there, who were you to deprive it?

To deny it the chance of thriving in nourishment

Till it reached a sublime fulfillment

But fuck, you’re scared, you broke up with her

And now you are breaking up from the inside


p.s.  A writer has to be an empath, in my opinion. I mean, if we can’t deduce, induce or understand the emotional spectrums of other people, how can we write them down in our own works?

And then there’s the vulnerable moment when others think that you’re writing about you. Not necessarily.