200 days and I haven’t written a single line

as corny as it may sound, if home is where the heart is then I’m homeless. I believe I already wrote this once, but who the fuck cares? I write this to myself and if I want to be stuck in sentimentalisms and retarded clichés, I am very well allowed to. my heart is nowhere to be found, my heart is lost. this same heart that was given to you like a gift and treated like a cheap, worthless trinket. but it was a gift, see, so I am not asking for it. I am not even asking about it. I don’t want it back, keep it. but I miss having a heart, I won’t lie: I miss having something alive beating in the chest instead of a ridiculous hole that hurts when I think of you, I miss having that muscle that tugged and squeezed when I looked at your smile. or anyone else’s smile, in fact. I liked feeling light and open-hearted when hearing laughters, I liked having a heart that made me feel alive. but it was my last gift, to you, my heart for you to take. but fuck this shit, right? just fuck it all. because time goes by and we just believe that it is getting better but it is not fucking getting any fucking better. you want to get better, you clean up, you quit smoking, you stop drinking. but when you fucking stop drinking then you FEEL it, the world is no longer numb and you can THINK, and when you are able think again you FUCKING REMEMBER stuff and when you remember it HURTS because you remember good time that no longer are and after the love came the breaking of YOUR heart, and that you were left alone in here, in this godforsaken place, with only the rubbish and shambles that were left of your dreams and life, so you get very angry at yourself for being so SO stupid, for letting go of you, your own self, all for another person, for wanting to be that person’s knight in shinning armour, for fucking loving and wanting to protect that person from the world and even from yourself (for you are a fucking deranged, worthless, pathetic maniac, you know?). then you start drinking again, because, what’s the fucking point in not drinking? you are dying anyway, so what the fuck, right? go down rolling some punches! and then you have no heart. again. and no patience. the whole world is upsetting, and you are very upset all the time. and you feel tired. tired of being so angry at everybody because you realize that you are, in fact, trying to avoid the fact that you are angry at yourself. I should be really angry at you, but I cannot be angry at you, because I still love you so so much, I still fucking think the world of you, even though I don’t even know if you are fucking dead or alive or eaten by the fucking polar bears or some shit like that. I should really really be angry at you, because, fuck, everyone else is so angry at you, everyone else goes “can you believe that asshole?” no, no one can believe that asshole, but it doesn’t matter to me, for, back in the day, I read too many poems when I was young, and the ideal of love is for the lover to still love the other lover even though that motherfucker really needs a beating instead of you true love. but, even though, I really still love you. did you know that I no longer remember the sound of your voice? I really don’t. I remember everything you once said to me, I remember every laugh, I remember every moment, every tear, every snore, every breath, but not your fucking voice. every time you speak in that memory or in that dream, it is me not you, speaking. but all the rest… well, I remember. It sounds sick and all, but fuck, I fucking paid attention to you. I even bought stuff for you: I didn’t even like some of that shit, I bought it just for you. I fucking loved you (like the cliché) like no one ever will. fuck you if you don’t like my clichés: at least they are fucking mine. at least I can write them, at least I can hold on to something. fuck, I have them, I can sit down and look at them while I smoke my 20 best friends from the pack and write away, for myself and for no one, and remember my fucking little heart.

which brings me back to the topic: where the fuck is my heart? where is it? probably shoved down on some desk drawer together with my favourite book. yes, that one I gave you on your departure. that was my favourite book, you fucking asshole. take care of it, at least.

and if home is where the fucking heart is, then I am fucking homeless. not only because my heart is lost and all is said and done, but because YOUR heart was MY home. and where the fuck is you heart?

please don’t cast me from MY home.


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