This is anger. This is grief. This is sorrow. This is feeling through the mass of emotions that amount when the string connecting you to another person is hacked, violently, bluntly, a knife with a serrated edge, and you feel the force push you backwards, broken bones, bleeding and bruised. I’m exaggerating. But it hurts, it hurts a lot, because now you’re broken in two and scrambling around, trying to pick up the pieces and regain your balance, trying to shake off the burgeoning loneliness and somehow feel whole. Because you miss her, and soon you don’t miss her, but you miss having someone there to share yourself with, to hold and be held. This is anger. These are your insecurities blooming, wild and unrestrained, poison berries, a Venus flytrap swallowing whole a bee carrying sugar-sweet nectar. Compare and contrast. You lose because you are less.
Your first boyfriend breaks your heart and you doubt if you’ll ever love anyone again, or if anyone will ever love you again. This is not true. You fall in love a second time, and it’s wild and sweet and intense. You open yourself up to her, like a surgeon with a knife, a dead body laid flat in the middle of an autopsy. You take the knife and drag the blade downwards, from the base of your throat to the split of your labia, blood spilling out of the gaping chasm, and you offer her your heart and watch as the blue electric sparks jumping from her fingers start to revive the dead thing. This is it. Number 2. This is love. This is us. Except this isn’t it.
I think it hurts because she’s everything and nothing, a character, a personality, a rendition of perfection carved into the female body; you can’t let go because the memory of her is alive and breathing; you can’t let go because you’re still waiting. And here is me, standing in front of you, tired and sad and lost. I know I made my own mistakes. I think it hurts because I gave you everything and you returned it in a virtual box with apologies trailing woefully behind – “I’m sorry but I’m still in love with my ex-girlfriend. But I still love you”. Why can’t you let go? It’s not fair.
The dead thing is back inside my chest, upside down and bruised, you were reckless with my heart. I stitched up the wound myself, also reckless, so that the seams would fall apart, sore and bloodied and tender. I know that I loved you. I know that I hate you. I’m angry.
I hope that she remains intact in your arms, life-sized doll, a version of the real thing who treated you badly. I hope you carry her around, your precious marble baggage, untouched and flawless. I hope one day you open your eyes and see the destruction, the forest fire, and the bodies you left behind (including mine). I hope you realise how pathetic this is.
Oyinda is a very very confused teenage girl, and like most people spends almost every waking moment trying to figure things out. Born in Nigeria but resides in London, she’s trying to become herself without shunning any part of her identity. To Oyinda, the ultimate goal in her life is to be seen as an equal counterpart universally, to be accepted for who she is and all her passions. You can find her on instagram and tumblr.