u/LenKiita

I've always had this habit of saving people. A savior complex, maybe that's what they call it. It's as if the feeling of being needed gave me, more than pleasure, a reason to keep existing.

When he came into my life, he had nothing, but I looked at him thinking there was something I could do. Always seeing people's potential instead of who they really are.

I've always said that my generosity expects nothing in return. But there's a small part of me that hopes for a little gratitude. Maybe if I help him a little more, he'll realize that I'm the only one who's always been by his side.

He needed everything I gave him. Me, on the other hand, he never seemed to need.

It's as if he'd found the exact spot where I was weakest and played with it. He played with the idea of feeling loved, and I played with the feeling of being needed.

Three months were enough for me to stop recognizing the man I'd let into my life and into my home.

I was blind and in love, and I, like a fool, gave him everything.

He got used to receiving it without lifting a finger.

How many times did I ask him if he loved me, even just a little?

He always said I was his pillar, the most important person in his life.

Of course.

It took him five minutes to leave me once his life was finally in order.

And I was left with my hands full of hope, waiting for the day he'd come back desperate, with an "I'm sorry."

But my hands feel heavy, and I don't know where to put all this sadness.

For a long time, I kept asking myself: What mess did you get yourself into? What made you run away, searching for a thousand excuses instead of facing the fact that you didn't love me?

Why did you have to make it so difficult? With hurtful words.

You could have just walked out that door without destroying everything we'd once built.

I don't expect life to turn around and put you in my path again.

I wouldn't know what to say to you.

An "I'm sorry" from you wouldn't be enough.

Physical pain and sleepless nights aren't healed by asking for forgiveness.

I can't wait for those words to come from your mouth.

And don't expect them to come from mine.

It was enough, all that time you pretended to love me while I, blind, waited for you to take me in your arms.

I don't feel anything anymore.

You left me empty.

This time I'll leave the hole where it belongs:
buried deep underground.

I'll leave that chair empty,
a plate served,
with no desire to meet anyone else
who asks for help along my way.

I think five months have passed since the day you left.

And I lie to myself, saying I don't look at my phone every time it rings, thinking it's a message from you appearing on the screen.

Conflicting feelings run through my mind: I don't want it to be you.

At the same time, I also want your name to appear, asking for forgiveness for the mess you left behind and for this wounded heart.

I still look for you every time I come home, like when you used to wait for me sitting on the stairs. Who knows, maybe one day you'll show up and surprise me.

Do you ever think of me the way I think of you?

What an absurd thought.

If you did, you would've looked for me a long time ago.

Maybe something is holding you back. Pride, fear, the shame of having left me the way you did.

I don't blame you.

Anyone in your place would do the same.

But I should be ashamed of myself for still waiting for you to come back.

I should hate you. But love is the only feeling I still have.

Your sporadic messages were always your way, and I, like a fool, clung to the little love you gave me.

What am I waiting for after so many months of silence, if there's nothing left?

If there's nothing left anymore.

What is this energy that still binds me to you and won't let me forget you?

Disconnect yourself from my subconscious and let me live in peace if I can't have you.

I tell my brain that I have to forget you, but it tells me it needs to think of you one more time.

And so, every attempt to forget you ends up turning into another memory of your face. Into the feeling of your kisses.

So much torment so much suffering. Every attempt to tear you from my body.

How many sleepless nights do I have to endure to erase you from my memory?

You already did it the day you walked away.

With hurtful words, you closed our story and left us with nothing else to say.

It would be difficult and painful
to tell the whole story.

Through tears and sleepless nights,
I’ve run out of words
in this mouth tired of saying your name.

I’ve told it too many times
in my writings,
in every verse,
leaving in each one
a little of my sadness.

What I can say
is that I loved someone
who said he loved me,
but his love was never real.

And that still hurts me
to this day.

If I tell the whole story
from my point of view,
he completely destroyed me,
leaving nothing but the shadow
of who I once was.

If I tell it from his point of view,
maybe I was the one
who pushed him away,
with this suffocating love
that, in the end, felt
like it didn’t belong to him.

I filled you with a love
that slipped through your hands,
and you, without a thought,
without even looking at it,
just let it go.

You grew tired of listening to me,
you stopped looking into my eyes,
waiting for my kisses.

How foolish could I have been
to overlook so many things?

Is love really that blind?

Your gaze became
painfully cold,
and in the end, all that remained
were two strangers in an empty room,
cowardly waiting
for the other to make the first move,
to open the door and leave.

Because whoever leaves first
wins the game.

The one who stays
is the one who loses,
left with the memories,
their pride on the floor,
and an irreparable broken heart.

And that’s how you left me,
listening to thousands of excuses
before you walked away,
excuses that weren’t worth hearing
if you had already made up your mind.

Ten minutes in,
I wasn’t listening anymore.

My mind had drifted far away.
All I could see was your face,
your eyes,
they weren’t the same anymore,
that cold room,
that distant voice,
and that door in the distance,
open,
waiting for us to leave.

It would be difficult and painful
to tell the whole story.

Through tears and sleepless nights,
I’ve run out of words
in this mouth tired of saying your name.

I’ve told it too many times
in my writings,
in every verse,
leaving in each one
a little of my sadness.

What I can say
is that I loved someone
who said he loved me,
but his love was never real.

And that still hurts me
to this day.

If I tell the whole story
from my point of view,
he completely destroyed me,
leaving nothing but the shadow
of who I once was.

If I tell it from his point of view,
maybe I was the one
who pushed him away,
with this suffocating love
that, in the end, felt
like it didn’t belong to him.

I filled you with a love
that slipped through your hands,
and you, without a thought,
without even looking at it,
just let it go.

You grew tired of listening to me,
you stopped looking into my eyes,
waiting for my kisses.

How foolish could I have been
to overlook so many things?

Is love really that blind?

Your gaze became
painfully cold,
and in the end, all that remained
were two strangers in an empty room,
cowardly waiting
for the other to make the first move,
to open the door and leave.

Because whoever leaves first
wins the game.

The one who stays
is the one who loses,
left with the memories,
their pride on the floor,
and an irreparable broken heart.

And that’s how you left me,
listening to thousands of excuses
before you walked away,
excuses that weren’t worth hearing
if you had already made up your mind.

Ten minutes in,
I wasn’t listening anymore.

My mind had drifted far away.
All I could see was your face,
your eyes,
they weren’t the same anymore,
that cold room,
that distant voice,
and that door in the distance,
open,
waiting for us to leave.

My life is written
in chaotic
and incoherent paragraphs.

Because if the author of your life
followed the rules of editing,
of a perfect structure,
what would you be writing about now
in your own words?

But who made the rules?

Who said
there always has to be
a common thread?

I’m like a folded sheet of paper,
a poorly structured text,
scattered pages,
a pencil with no point,

but without losing the strength
to keep writing
that script
I’ve always carried
in my head.

I jump
from one thing to another
without any formality,
without asking anyone’s permission,
without knowing
the rules of the community.

I dream,
I think,
I write,
I erase
and erase again.

Thousands of writings,
accused of plagiarism,
of relying
on countless forms of help.

But I write
however I want,
however it comes to me
in the moment,

without scolding,
without rules,

whatever comes out
of my mind.

I’ve never been good
at following instructions.

I can start
by telling the end of a story
and get tangled up
in the middle.

But the story gets told
despite it all.

It straightens itself out
along the way
as I write it.

Sometimes
I can’t find the exact word.

It gets caught
halfway in my throat,

and my pencil
does as it pleases.

It has a life
of its own,

with ideas
that had been waiting
for their moment
to emerge triumphant.

All my writings
can be read
as drafts
of a rebellious mind,

a mind in progress,

one that doesn’t follow the rules,
one that won’t be tamed,
one that, no matter what,
will keep writing,

with lost words
and phrases
that will come together
with time.

We could have been
so fucking happy.

You were so afraid
of seeing us holding hands,
walking together
toward a future filled with questions,
perhaps without answers.

You were so afraid
of seeing yourself happy
for the first time in your life.
Because you didn’t know
that feeling.

I know.

A familiar desolation
feels safer
than an uncertain happiness.

Loneliness and abandonment
are all you’ve ever known.

And when someone gave you
a little affection,
all you could do
was run away.

I know.

I can understand that.

What I can’t process
is the way you left.

You left me
with an encyclopedia of poems
dedicated to your name.

And perhaps you were left
without ever knowing how many nights
I could have kept adoring you.

Sometimes life takes turns
I truly don’t understand.

It puts someone in front of you
who comes along and shakes
your entire life,
only to leave anyway.

To completely change
your perspective
on everything you once believed.

To teach you
how to say goodbye to them,
how to miss them.

What good does it do me
to learn how to lose you?

What good does it do me
to learn how to be sad?

What the fuck good does it do me
to learn how to let go
of the only person
I wanted to be with?

I’ll stop asking myself
the reasons you left,
stop asking life for explanations
for the cruel hand
it dealt me.

These things
come down to luck.

In the end,
I didn’t learn how to lose you.

I only learned how to live
with the empty space you left behind,

where we could have been
so fucking happy.

They told her
she had an enormous ability
to achieve any dream
she set her mind to.

But little by little,
they clipped her wings.

And she, with tenderness,
would sew them back together
with blunt needles,
attaching them to her body,

even though she knew
that along the way,
they would keep falling off.

No one ever gave her
the tools she needed
to free herself.

She grew up
with whatever she had at hand,
thinking that,
all things considered,
she was doing a good job.

Her tears gave her
the warmth
her face and body needed
to keep surviving.

She never thought
loneliness was a bad thing;
on the contrary,
it was the one
that stayed by her side,
her only lasting friend.

She tried not to let the world
destroy her
or change her,

so that at least a little
of what had once been
her essence
would remain.

Because, oh God,
how the world
has tried to change her.

She could have become
a bad person.

But she still believes.

She still thinks
the world has not corrupted her,

that she can keep trusting,
that she can keep believing,

even though they have always
tried to prove her
wrong.

What has become
of that little girl
I talk about so much?

Has she grown
into a good human being?

Does it still
hurt her so much?

Will she keep
giving people something to talk about?

Will she keep sewing, endlessly,
the feathers
attached to her body?

We could have been
so fucking happy.

You were so afraid
of seeing us holding hands,
walking together
toward a future filled with questions,
perhaps without answers.

You were so afraid
of seeing yourself happy
for the first time in your life.
Because you didn’t know
that feeling.

I know.

A familiar desolation
feels safer
than an uncertain happiness.

Loneliness and abandonment
are all you’ve ever known.

And when someone gave you
a little affection,
all you could do
was run away.

I know.

I can understand that.

What I can’t process
is the way you left.

You left me
with an encyclopedia of poems
dedicated to your name.

And perhaps you were left
without ever knowing how many nights
I could have kept adoring you.

Sometimes life takes turns
I truly don’t understand.

It puts someone in front of you
who comes along and shakes
your entire life,
only to leave anyway.

To completely change
your perspective
on everything you once believed.

To teach you
how to say goodbye to them,
how to miss them.

What good does it do me
to learn how to lose you?

What good does it do me
to learn how to be sad?

What the fuck good does it do me
to learn how to let go
of the only person
I wanted to be with?

I’ll stop asking myself
the reasons you left,
stop asking life for explanations
for the cruel hand
it dealt me.

These things
come down to luck.

In the end,
I didn’t learn how to lose you.

I only learned how to live
with the empty space you left behind,

where we could have been
so fucking happy.

Today I woke up disoriented,
looking for help
from someone who doesn’t exist,

and I find comfort
in these hands soaked
by a rain of tears
falling from the sky.

I can’t count
how many times I’ve fallen,

but I can count the times
I’ve slowly
managed to get back up.

I don’t remember how many times
I’ve wished
to stay lying on the ground,

without even having an arm
to help me,

using imaginary crutches
that break
with every step I take.

Tired.
I’m extremely tired.

With burdens on my back
that feel like stones

I’ve been dragging
for a long time.

My back hurts.
My body, sometimes,
doesn’t respond.

I wish I could sleep in a bed
that would hold me
and burn me,

so I wouldn’t have to stay there
watching my reflection disappear,

counting the minutes
until time fades away.

I look for a shelter
to stay with me
through this freezing, bitter winter.

But it seems
loneliness keeps following me
and my problems won’t leave me alone.

How long will I have to hide
in these places
that aren’t mine?

I want to take off this blindfold
I’ve been wearing
for so long,

but I can barely
even look at myself in the mirror.

I want to be able to look at people
without breaking,

and for them to stop looking at me
as if I
the strongest one.

A little peace
is all I ask for.

A cigarette between my lips.
A hot cup of coffee.
A friend’s hand.

Anything
that tells me
I’m not lost.

Today I woke up disoriented,
looking for help
from someone who doesn’t exist,

and I find comfort
in these hands soaked
by a rain of tears
falling from the sky.

I can’t count
how many times I’ve fallen,

but I can count the times
I’ve slowly
managed to get back up.

I don’t remember how many times
I’ve wished
to stay lying on the ground,

without even having an arm
to help me,

using imaginary crutches
that break
with every step I take.

Tired.
I’m extremely tired.

With burdens on my back
that feel like stones

I’ve been dragging
for a long time.

My back hurts.
My body, sometimes,
doesn’t respond.

I wish I could sleep in a bed
that would hold me
and burn me,

so I wouldn’t have to stay there
watching my reflection disappear,

counting the minutes
until time fades away.

I look for a shelter
to stay with me
through this freezing, bitter winter.

But it seems
loneliness keeps following me
and my problems won’t leave me alone.

How long will I have to hide
in these places
that aren’t mine?

I want to take off this blindfold
I’ve been wearing
for so long,

but I can barely
even look at myself in the mirror.

I want to be able to look at people
without breaking,

and for them to stop looking at me
as if I
the strongest one.

A little peace
is all I ask for.

A cigarette between my lips.
A hot cup of coffee.
A friend’s hand.

Anything
that tells me
I’m not lost.

Letting you go
has been one of the hardest things
I have ever done.

And I’m not talking
about letting you go physically,
because you made that decision
the moment you left,
and I simply
had to accept it
and try to move on.

I’m talking about letting you go
from everything we ever were
and everything
we will never be.

Not allowing my lips
to say your name,

not allowing my mouth
to remember your kisses,

not allowing my hands
to wander over my body
searching for your touch,

not allowing myself
to keep thinking about you.
It has been one of the hardest things
I have ever had to do.

There is no
“I wish I could forget you” here.

Here, I started
with a clean slate.

Not because there was no more love
left for me to give,
but because the false promise
of someone who would never come
was killing me.

Not knowing anything about you,
the uncertainty,
became unbearable.

I had to cut off contact
with you inside myself
immediately,
teach myself not to recognize you
in every person I see,

not to search for you
in certain voices
or faces,

to reset myself
and start from zero,
without you
even knowing it.

And I had to fight
against my own demons,
my own beliefs,
that stupid loyalty
I always had for you,

dismantle those beliefs
of blind devotion
I had held for you.

I don’t believe
you would ever come back,
and even if you did,
the person I used to be
is no longer here.

She left
the day you decided
to leave.

And I keep walking hand in hand
with the loneliness
that accompanies me,

learning to hold myself up
in this emptiness,

since the day
you chose to walk away,
crossing that door
with nothing left to say,

leaving behind
all the words
we will never again
be able to say
to each other’s faces,

knowing there will never be
anything left
for either of us
to come back for.

He screams
with a muffled cry in silence,
thinking that maybe
someone might hear him

But he looks around
and people wander
like ghosts
through their own lives.

How he wishes
he could ask for help,
when he doesn’t even know
if he wants it.

If he doesn’t even know
if he could accept it.

He keeps getting up every morning
with heavy eyes,
a dry mouth,
an atrophied heart,

but with a desire
to keep existing
that keeps pulling him
out of bed.

He holds on to the thought
that there are people
who depend on him.

But are we really
indispensable
in this life?

No one knows
the storms he lives through
every day.

No one knows
what goes on in his mind,
what he has to fight,

what he doesn’t tell
his friends,
what he doesn’t share
with his family.

But he keeps going,
as if nothing were wrong,
his head held high,
facing life head-on.

No one asks,
because no one suspects
the ruin of a structure
that shows no sign of giving way.

No one imagines
that someone like him
would keep everything inside
until he drowns in it.

He keeps thousands of secrets.

He is afraid
they will discover
that he is not as strong
as everyone believes,

that they will know
he cries in silence,

that they will see
he has stumbled
a million times.

When he believes
the world has turned its back on him,
how could they possibly know
if he tries to hide it
even from himself?

And so he waits,
day after day,
for someone to see
what he is desperately
trying to hide.

But he gets back up alone,
without rubbing his knees.

He screams
with a muffled cry in silence,
thinking that maybe
someone might hear him

But he looks around
and people wander
like ghosts
through their own lives.

How he wishes
he could ask for help,
when he doesn’t even know
if he wants it.

If he doesn’t even know
if he could accept it.

He keeps getting up every morning
with heavy eyes,
a dry mouth,
an atrophied heart,

but with a desire
to keep existing
that keeps pulling him
out of bed.

He holds on to the thought
that there are people
who depend on him.

But are we really
indispensable
in this life?

No one knows
the storms he lives through
every day.

No one knows
what goes on in his mind,
what he has to fight,

what he doesn’t tell
his friends,
what he doesn’t share
with his family.

But he keeps going,
as if nothing were wrong,
his head held high,
facing life head-on.

No one asks,
because no one suspects
the ruin of a structure
that shows no sign of giving way.

No one imagines
that someone like him
would keep everything inside
until he drowns in it.

He keeps thousands of secrets.

He is afraid
they will discover
that he is not as strong
as everyone believes,

that they will know
he cries in silence,

that they will see
he has stumbled
a million times.

When he believes
the world has turned its back on him,
how could they possibly know
if he tries to hide it
even from himself?

And so he waits,
day after day,
for someone to see
what he is desperately
trying to hide.

But he gets back up alone,
without rubbing his knees.

Every morning
I wake up thinking
about the pain I caused you.

I wish I could pick up the phone
and tell you I’m sorry,
hear your sweet voice
on the other end
as I beg for your forgiveness,
but I know that, by now,
you wouldn’t answer me,
and I don’t deserve it.

I spend sleepless nights
trying to forget your face
and the miserable way
I left,
how your expression
kept changing
as I walked away.

I wish I could tell you
a thousand times
that I’m sorry.

That you could truly hear
the sincerity in my words.

To hold your hand,
to hold you in my arms
and repair,
even just a little,
what my leaving broke.

I know it’s impossible
to go back in time.

I know it’s impossible
to fix anything.

But if only
you could hear my prayers,

my broken voice,

the one that calls you
in the middle of the night
because it cannot
fall asleep,
because it feels
so torn apart.

She wants
to hear you again,
to see you dancing
between her sheets.

And so I wake up
from that same dream,
the one where you
say those words to me

in a phone call,

in a letter,

in a memory,

where you actually come
with an apology in your hands
the day you left,
when you left me
without even hesitating
and simply
moved on.

Because I can only dream
of remorse
coming from you.

It has never existed.

It never did.

You will never have the courage
to look me in the eyes
and tell me:

I’m sorry.

When music has always been your escape from reality
and your companion through the good and the bad,
you never thought you would be able to share that escape with someone.

Your secret place is yours alone.

Who dares to come and disturb you,
to venture inside with you
and, supposedly,
take away that well-deserved peace?

He slipped in almost instinctively.

My body, tired of always being on the defensive,
gave in to that presence
filled with a light that dazzled from afar,
without me being able to resist
its healing power.

We danced until dawn,
laughed at trivial things
like two kindred souls
who had finally found each other,
and simply looked at one another,
knowing what the other was saying
without even speaking a word.

Music will be what binds us forever,
because when we are dancing,
everything else disappears,
and there is only us,
the rhythm,
the coincidence that placed you in my path.

Because not everyone is lucky enough
to meet their partner in mischief
at the party
and in life itself.

He came in without destroying anything,
almost on tiptoe,
trying not to touch anything along the way,
with nothing but his kindness
and his desire to take me by the hand
and lead me to the dance floor,
knowing that I was safe with him,
that nothing would happen to me
even if I followed him blindfolded.

Him,
my favorite person.

My binôme,
the only one allowed
to enter my secret place
without me fearing
that he might destroy it with his bitterness,
with some fleeting impulse to ransack it,
or tear everything apart in his path.

Trust, they call it…

My friend ❤️

When music has always been your escape from reality
and your companion through the good and the bad,
you never thought you would be able to share that escape with someone.

Your secret place is yours alone.

Who dares to come and disturb you,
to venture inside with you
and, supposedly,
take away that well-deserved peace?

He slipped in almost instinctively.

My body, tired of always being on the defensive,
gave in to that presence
filled with a light that dazzled from afar,
without me being able to resist
its healing power.

We danced until dawn,
laughed at trivial things
like two kindred souls
who had finally found each other,
and simply looked at one another,
knowing what the other was saying
without even speaking a word.

Music will be what binds us forever,
because when we are dancing,
everything else disappears,
and there is only us,
the rhythm,
the coincidence that placed you in my path.

Because not everyone is lucky enough
to meet their partner in mischief
at the party
and in life itself.

He came in without destroying anything,
almost on tiptoe,
trying not to touch anything along the way,
with nothing but his kindness
and his desire to take me by the hand
and lead me to the dance floor,
knowing that I was safe with him,
that nothing would happen to me
even if I followed him blindfolded.

Him,
my favorite person.

My binôme,
the only one allowed
to enter my secret place
without me fearing
that he might destroy it with his bitterness,
with some fleeting impulse to ransack it,
or tear everything apart in his path.

Trust, they call it…

My friend ❤️

How many times has my mouth whispered your name
without making a sound,
so I wouldn’t have to hear you,
so I wouldn’t have to think of you.

I’ve lost count of how much time has passed.

The clock stopped the day you walked away
through this jammed and dented door.

My shadow watched you leave.

My body couldn’t bring itself to meet your eyes
or face what was happening.

How many times had you planned your escape
before you finally chose to go?

You didn’t even have the decency
to turn around before you left.

Your shadow never touched mine.

You dragged it away with you,

so completely yours,

so selfish,

so goddamn,

What a fucking bastard.

Leave me here inside the dark.

What do you care anyway?

You must have walked away still whistling,
while I’m still here, still hanging around,

keeping vigil where the shadows lie,
counting every hour that passes by,
until my body finally knows
you’re the one who chose to go.

How many times has my mouth whispered your name
without making a sound,
so I wouldn’t have to hear you,
so I wouldn’t have to think of you.

I’ve lost count of how much time has passed.

The clock stopped the day you walked away
through this jammed and dented door.

My shadow watched you leave.

My body couldn’t bring itself to meet your eyes
or face what was happening.

How many times had you planned your escape
before you finally chose to go?

You didn’t even have the decency
to turn around before you left.

Your shadow never touched mine.

You dragged it away with you,

so completely yours,

so selfish,

so goddamn,

What a fucking bastard.

Leave me here inside the dark.

What do you care anyway?

You must have walked away still whistling,
while I’m still here, still hanging around,

keeping vigil where the shadows lie,
counting every hour that passes by,
until my body finally knows
you’re the one who chose to go.

He comes back saying he misses her,
while shamelessly
being in another woman’s arms.

And she,
like a fool,
falls at his feet,
because after all this time,
all these years,
she believes there is
an overflowing love between them,
even if she’s living a lie,
even if he doesn’t feel
the same way she does.

She keeps this blindfold over her eyes
that won’t let her see
that she is the other woman,
or perhaps
the other woman
is the one who’s suffering.

She wants him to choose her.

She wants him to stay in her arms
every night
when he comes to see her.

But he always leaves
and leaves her
with this bitter taste in her mouth,
with that uneasy feeling
that something was missing,
that it was never quite enough.

He leaves her with his caresses still on her body,
with her hands cold,
wondering when she’ll see him again.

When will his kisses
and his hands
touch her again?
she wonders.

She’s addicted to the touch of his body.

She doesn’t know how
to get him out of her skin.

She has tried almost everything
to forget him.
With other people,
with other caresses,
with other kisses.

But it’s impossible
to get him out of her mind.

And so he’ll keep coming back
every night.

And he’ll keep leaving.

Like a thief
who comes in to steal
everything he finds in his path,
without even realizing
how much he takes,
how much emptiness he leaves behind
when he walks away.