I now understand Kait Rokowski's words: "Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends, and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was always just red."

When you ended things, I couldn’t stop writing about you.
Every poem, every story carried the weight of us.
I wrote about the way your touch lingered,
About the taste of your lips,
How we were two imperfect puzzles fitting perfectly.
I wrote about how my world was bland before you arrived, vivid when you were in it and dark, upheaved, after you left.
My heart bled onto the pages of my notebook.

But then, the luster faded.
The illusion dissolved.
I pieced together my shattered heart,
And offered it to another.

I began to see the difference.
My curves, once deemed too much,
Earned me the name My African Aphrodite.
My laugh, once too loud,
Now draws more jokes, just to echo across continents.
I’m no longer too sensitive; my intensity is cherished, a reason for the love I receive.
I’m accepted simply as I am.
The parts you wished away are the parts most adored.
I romanticized you until I felt the true pleasure of love and romance,
And I realized the blood was indeed just red.

© midnightwinewithj