Who am I without you?

I usually write prose for money, but it’s the poems that are for sorrow and reflection. Still, in poetry, one can get lost, and the people who write it – especially feel it. I wasn’t as good for you as you think, there are many dark corners in my mind that even I can’t fathom – at least not yet. I wish I could progress and be productive, but sometimes my body asks for a pit, though I am aware that I have no stairs to pull me out of it.

The time has passed when I would over analyze myself, looking for mistakes in my actions, then trying to win you back, consciously lying to myself in the process. However, now I blame myself only for one thing – my choice, which was a bad one. I wonder how I allowed myself to fall so low and let someone hurt me... again. I thought previous relationships had taught me something, preparing me for the “right one” – they did, but now I know that the “right one” wasn’t you. And it wasn’t easy to admit that you probably never were. You see, it’s not the first time I’m going through this, I’ve seen all the patterns and behaviors already, and thus, I’ve probably become permanently damaged. In this whole story, you’re actually not important. I wonder how I could have predicted something that couldn’t be predicted – one shouldn’t seek reason where there simply is no reason.

I could blame you for the fact that I spent the best of my verses and words on you, and the fact that the song I dedicated to you, the very one that stood by your bed, now lies somewhere at the bottom of a drawer or, worse, in the trash. Every flower I bought, I chose carefully, I treasured your gifts, and in everything I gave you, I saw something valuable and permanent... The question haunts me – How did yesterday's “I love you” become today's “Sorry, it’s not you, it’s me?” How hard is it to sleep with that in your head…

I want to divert my thoughts, have a drink or go out. Walk, stroll, run, in a false attempt to steal time, the time that should pass until your notification lights up on my phone. I really wish I could be like Adele, for example, and write a global hit after a breakup... How miserable must that guy feel now? Still, I’m far from that.

This morning, I even woke up next to a stranger, admittedly beautiful, but still, a complete stranger. Out of habit, I was holding tight until I realized that it wasn’t you. The unfortunate thing is that there were no complaints... I guess we live in a world where love is truly lacking, but I’m also not sure I even know how to recognize it anymore. And yes, I know it’s fresh, and I know I shouldn’t rush, but it’s really hard for me – you’ve managed to destroy my self-esteem to the point where I’m desperately trying to find validation in an unhealthy way... A tragedy for a still young man... However, it really worked, after just three days, my phone exploded, and various interested people popped up. In the end, I chose the one who was the most physically attractive... what superficiality. Soon after, I realized that I am indeed desirable, but not loved... and that realization is quite sad.

Words and letters are worthless, and I feel like I’m talking too much. The more of something is in circulation, the cheaper it becomes, but the more there is that “something”, it’s also probably more needed, yet I truly don’t have any to waste. I’ve tried, I’ve really tried – I wish I could be the man who says – “All the best,” but I can’t. How can I wish that to someone who didn’t have enough empathy and understanding to simply break up with me if it had to happen, instead of just removing me without any explanation?

That’s why you don’t have the right to be sad. You don’t have the right to be sad and collect sympathy from random strangers who don’t know anything about the situation. You don’t have the right to use my sorrow and my dreams for some worn-out, bad content, collecting cheap points and attention you don’t deserve. I refuse to turn into some TikTok inspirational video, that will maybe, just like me, be archived when it gets boring. I don’t want to be part of that system, I’m not your “cliché” that can be easily forgotten. I’m not some old toy that ends up in a landfill after a while; I refuse to accept that. Moreover, I would never want to live the life you live... It's too sad and somewhat dull. In the end, I believe that – I will get over it, but it’s only just beginning for you... don’t ask me how I know.

Written by:

Darko Mandić

Belgrade, Serbia