Tag Archives: heartbreak

“I’m Sorry” Was Mandatory

It’s a little gloomy outside, but it’s still beautiful 

It’s windy and overcast, but weeds are still sprout and I find myself longing to rip up every dandelion and wish to take a trip back to an early 2000’s summer with a swift exhale 

I want to be single digit age without a single care in the world

I want to be rolling down the hilly, hole ridden lot across the street from the 2nd move of our fresh start after leaving my father single digit years ago

I want to be playing pretend in some silly, always original game that my siblings and I concocted, in an antecedent time of my siblings deciding that they can live without me- instead of pretending like I’m alright with the feeling of being only a half step above disposable to them

And, you know, I wish that I was just feeling sorry for myself, but the truth hurts like those scraped knees when we’d wipe out on our shared pink Razor scooter and the bikes that my ma won in a contest one Christmas 

I’d like, for a summer, to go back to my older sis deciding on a whim to go bike riding in the too-long Arrowhead Lake trail or my younger sis and I randomly going to the parks in town, walking everywhere, because we couldn’t sit still. For hours on end. Back before I stole a cigarette at 16 “just to try” and got addicted at 17, and 3 years later not having stopped since

Back when I was told that drinking too much pop is bad for me, before my first drink at 15 on the way back down south from an annual visit to Chicago, and before I got drunk for the first time on the floor of a shared hotel room on the day of my dad’s wedding, with my ex best friend pouring the shots and my family all asleep just one bed over, oblivious 

I want those dozen weeks to live in the comfort of a time when saying” I’m sorry” for hurting each other’s feelings was mandatory and I knew what I did wrong
But I should’ve predicted,or at least, expected that adulthood would be something along these lines, considering that my younger sis used to walk up and hit me just so I’d hit her back and she could get me in trouble. And now, it’s just emotional blows out of nowhere, and I haven’t hit back in years. Yet I still have to ignore her remarks like she inexplicably ignores me.

I want sit down family dinners of home cooked meals, but now I swear that we’re all just roommates who live off of fast food and gas station sandwiches

I want back the fights, because at least they acted like I exist, and storming out to walk the familiar streets. But we’ve been in the 5th house since our fresh start and all that I go on are repetitive route drives that I’m so sick of. I could live here another 4 years, god forbid, and still never have this town figured out up and down 

Give me only 3ft of hallway to my sister’s room, only separated by one dilapidating accordion door and a doorway of flower shaped plastic beads

Before I knew that there was a word for my darkness, before my void and sadness had a name.

~ Megan

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Diary of the Girl Who Everyone Wants

I see a lot of posts about girls and women wanting to be the embodiment of desire:

To be the girl who is guaranteed a second glance, or a few, when they walk past men and women: not realizing that feeling like you’re constantly under a fucking microscope, that having more good days than bad sure as hell makes people think that a rough day for you gives them an open invitation to make commentary about your appearance, that even on your good days, someone is staring at you picking apart every single flaw that you are already fully aware of, yourself.

The girl who sweeps a sad boy off of his feet, after the girl who he thought that he was going to marry shattered his heart, and makes him feel better: not realizing that I don’t go home after “going home” with him and know that I’m the one who his heart longs for. I’m just a body. A good time. A fucking distraction, but not simply human. I’m the one who makes him feel special for a week, until she makes him heartsick again because the way that I delicately exhaled my cigarette reminded him of the way that he first kissed her lips 9 months ago on the same porch swing.

I hear complaints wrapped all in between longing about how these people don’t want to be just another face in the crowd, another wallflower, another body filling up the room: not realizing that I’d kill to blend it, to be looked over, to be lost in the crowd like I’m lost in my own fucking head. Overlook me, merely just as a passerby and not like you overlooked my budding feelings for him and him and the boy before that.

How they want to be the ultimate objects of lust: not realizing that I’m so sick and disgusted with being solely an object. I’m a huge step up from their hand, but I might as well be because he’s even less emotionally connected to me than he is to himself. I don’t want lust, oh my god, I want to scream, is what I want. Lust has no mercy and in turn, neither do I. But I want to love, maybe, and to be loved. To feel special for longer than a goddamn week only to be dropped faster than a dried out pen when he’s in a hurry to write down his feelings for her.

How they want to be the one who people have jealous conversations about as they walk away from flashing a smile and looking whomever is undressing them with their eyes up and down: not realizing that I want to wear anything, everything, without being looked at like an expensive suit that he’s looking to buy on his first date with the girl that’ll make his heart skip a beat when she’ll first call him “baby.” Or like the porn star who he fantasizes about when they get into a fight and he’s sleeping alone for a while. I’m looking them up and down to read their body language, hoping that, maybe this time, it won’t be so confident and obvious of their one sided intentions.

The one who seduces with a effortless smirk and makes breaking hearts look as mechanical as breathing: not knowing that I smirk because I don’t know how to smile and holy hell what I’d give to genuinely be able to, once. I’d love to even remember the last time that I did and didn’t feel guilty for it. And I wish that I didn’t break a single heart in my lifetime but it seems like the only thing that I’m ever able to reciprocate with my completely septic heart and rotten intentions and terrifying mind.

Babe, do you even realize just what in the hell that you’re asking for? What the fuck that you’re wasting your hours day dreaming about?

I can imagine that when it hits you that this is coming from the girl who “everyone wants,” that I won’t get much sympathy; but baby, I’m not asking for that nor do I need it.

I just want you to be careful what you wish for.

If someone would’ve told me that wishes do come true, I would’ve ran like hell away from all of those 11:11’s and shooting stars and pathetic prayers. 

Love, the girl who everyone wants but the girl who nobody loves

~Megan

Numbing Numbness (Life of a Writer)

​I can’t say that I feel anything for anyone. Nothing real, at least. 

“I miss you”s and “I love you”s have become so, for lack of a more unique word, empty. Hugs and kisses and sex feel good but not down to my seemingly broken soul. I wish that I could drown out these thoughts with the music and birds and kids playing and car alarm going off right now, but they whisper so softly that it’s almost like a fucking shriek. And I just wanna scream and burn away the painful words that’ll creep their way up my throat with cigarettes and the drip. But the vices can’t save me by drowning me anymore. This is the kind of numbness and disassociation and self confusion that I can’t fuck away. I can’t buzz away; I can’t smoke out of my body. Or snort out of my fucking mind. I’m so sick of being this sick. Was I born this ill? Why do my diseases and conditions have to affect me inside and out?

I miss being held and feeling like I was cured. But it only lasts as long as I can get used to somebody’s body and then the touch of their skin makes me uncomfortable in mine and then I feel disease ridden all over again. I hope to forget about this and read it over two years from now and wonder how long it’s been since I felt so hopeless and lost. But I seem to only get worse with every forgotten passage and lose articulation as time passes. 

I wish that he could save me or, god forbid, another he in my life… but I’ve been told and have told others that you can only save yourself. 

But what a fucking hypocritical cliché because I don’t have the slightest clue of what that means or where to even begin. 

I’m so scared, so fucking terrified and petrified that I will always have to self medicate to pretend to cope with so much fucking pain. I hurt so constantly and so deeply and it subsequently makes me feel more inclined to take it upon myself to dull it.

How in the hell does anyone think that they’re supposed to numb their numbness? 

I don’t think that a writer realizes just how much pain that they’re in until they unload after paper silence for months. It’s such a freeing entrapment.

I feel that I’ve made some sort of breakthrough yet I’ve just dug myself into an even more gaping emotional and mental whole. What a fucking morose contradictory art. 

I don’t know what I want to do or be. I’m afraid that I have no fucking clue of who I am, but I’m more afraid that I know exactly who I am. I think that the latter is more horrifying. 

How the fuck is this any way to live? How in the world is this a life?
~Megan Chruszczyk

Shattered

He says that I don’t remember a lot about when we first got together
And he’s right, I don’t
I don’t remember a lot about my whole life, actually
I need pictures and reminders
Do you know why?
Because I was in a dark place for 18 years until I met him
Then he made mistakes and I was back to being dark
Dark places cause you to open ugly doors just for some light
You do damaging things
But dear god, I remember the exact date that we met and knowing from the moment that he and I sat outside his friend’s house to smoke that he’d be special to me
I remember how free that I felt when I opened up to him that night and every night after that
I remember how I felt and what he tasted like when we first kissed and how unbelievable terrified that I was because I knew that I was going to fall in love with him
I remember feeling love for the first time
I remember what we were doing when I looked into his eyes and saw how they’d changed; I could see that he was falling for me- I remember how warm that they were
I remember the way that his body felt with mine and how it fit like a puzzle piece and created the most beautiful masterpiece
I remember the inexplicable magic that came with every kiss; it never ended
I remember how much that I missed him even when I’d just left only a minute prior
I remember how the love that I felt for him overflowed my chest

I remember when the look in his eyes stopped being warm
When he stopped letting me all the way in
When sex became just sex
When he stopped trying
When he became someone else

I remember. Fuck, do I remember.
I remember feeling shattered.

~Megan

Gone In Sixty Seconds

Everyday is an array of all of my worst emotions
I can yell and cry my goddamn eyes out
But then a minute later I can’t breathe and I am a statue and I just start to fade
He’s on the way to school and he’s in my head
I lie awake at night, drifting off to the thought of him and I and him and someone else and I roll over to find him not lying in my bed
It’s 3a.m. and I start sobbing and 9a.m. and I just want his arms around me
3 in the afternoon and I can’t open my eyes while I’m on the road but I just want him out of my head
He’s in my head telling me not to go to class
I can’t shake it but I want to so bad
But I don’t want to forget a single moment
He is the smoke in my lungs andthe shake in my hands
And the reason why speeding up on a sharp curve makes more sense than two plus two
I want so badly to run up to him and scream, “I fucking love you”
But he tells us both that it’s for the best
And I can still feel what it was like to fall asleep with my head on his chest
And I can’t, I fucking can’t  accept that he was just another lesson
Over a year of my life gone in sixty seconds

~Megan

Life Isn’t Poetry

Hating yourself isn’t poetry,
Eating disorders are not poetry,
Mental illnesses are not poetry,
Addictions are not poetry,
Wanting to die isn’t poetry.

And it isn’t “life.” Part of life is not suffering from pain brought on by your shitty home life, or your brutal tongued peers, or what that person still did to you when you said “no.”

And it’s not the scars on your wrists or the empty bottles hidden in your drawers or the places you can’t go because the memories scream too loudly. It’s not the secrets you keep or the pictures you burned.

It’s not the “one more” pill you shouldn’t have taken, or the time you stood on an overpass, looking down at the busy roads and wondering what it would be like if you jumped. Nor will it ever be a broken heart.

Life isn’t poetry.

~Megan