The Poetic Corner: Damaged

“How did he hurt you?,” they inquire.

 “I can’t,” I reply. 

There isn’t a rational, comprehensible answer. 

I can’t make you understand. 

"But, I’m confused," they say in return. 

And there, I stop. 

And softly explain that there aren’t enough words. 

There aren’t enough words in the dictionary. 

"Please," they beg. So, nevertheless, I try. 

Although, such attempts always fall flat. 


He told me he wanted to connect with me. 

He wanted to understand me. 

He wanted to get to know me. 

But he never listened. 

Never gave me his full attention. 

He kept the conversations shallow and surface-level.

Always changed the topic when it became uncomfortable. 

And, so, in turn, he never got to know me. He never understood me. 

Who am I? Merely an acquaintance. 


He ignored me when I needed him the most. 

When I was anxious and scared. 

He chucked my feelings away.

Tossed them Into the heap of worthlessness. 


He told me he wanted to go on fun adventures. 

And spend time together. 

But his suggestions were shallow and boring. 

His conversations were mundane. 

He was surface-level. And bland.

And boring. 

And I wasn’t. 

I had thoughts that crept onto the edges of the earth 

And he didn’t. 


He was passive.

And dismissive.

He came with a mouthful of “forever’s” and “bigger pictures” 

And he was far too idealistic. 


He never voiced his concerns, merely accepted them.

He was passive.

Until it was far too late. 

He let the problems cook

Cook on a red, hot stove

Until they boiled over, seeping from its edges 

“I thought it would have been better this way,” he sheepishly explained. 


He told me to love him. 

But he never loved me the same way.

He said I never showed him love. 

But, I did. In the ways I knew how. 

But, he never recognized this. 

Nor appreciated my vulnerability.

Instead: “I usually don’t talk about stuff like this,” he so frequently said. 

And, then, brazenly suggested, I treated him as a friend


He was distant and aloof. 

Engrossed in all but me. 

Never once vulnerable himself.

He loved me, or so he claimed. 

But I never got a clear indication. 


He touched me 

With affection and care  

But that was all.


“I want to see you,” he used to say. 

But, of course, he was always far too busy 

Too preoccupied

Too immersed 

Too involved 

Too concerned with everything but me. 

100 days in, he said, “please, let’s hang out” 

“It’s killing me inside” 

But we never did. 

A 5-minute drive. 

A 10-minute drive, maximum.

“I want to see you, please,” he used to say.

But those requests were voiceless. 

And fake.

“Text me, instead,” he suggested, complaining about his busy schedule

“I have to make sacrifices” he continued. 

“Come back when I’m done with school,” he would say jokingly. 

But it was no joke. 

And it used to make me cry.


And he told me to love him, shoving me into an ominous, unknown corner.

But the moment I did. 

He ripped it all away.  

He ignored me. 

Ignored away the pain. 

Ignored away the hurt. 

Until what could have been a plausible reconciliation turned cold and bitter. 




And slaughtered. 


And finally, he begged, “please stay” 

And firmly, I told him, “No, I deserve better”


Upon termination, I said: “I’d still like to see you” 

Out of common courtesy 

And human decency 

But you had none. 

“Maybe Friday or Saturday,” you wrote back. 

But, of course, passivity took the reins. 

As it always did.

And, apparently, I just wasn’t worth the exertion. 

How immature. 

How flagrant.

And, so, we never spoke again.