I remember you said that you liked the decorative pins on my hair.
You told me I looked beautiful in that teal colored one-piece dress,
and that putting on makeup made me much more vibrant; much more alive.
I remember taking off the decorative pins,
tearing away the dress,
wiped off the makeup, and stared directly into your eyes.
“How do you love me now?” I asked.
You stammered, trying to find the words you lost.
Maybe that’s why we couldn’t work it out together. It’s not because we didn’t love each other enough, or because one of us wasn’t trying enough.
Maybe it’s just because you never looked at the real me properly.
Behind the decorative pins on my hair, the beautiful teal colored one-piece dress, and the vibrant makeup, I was just an awkward girl, trying her hardest to be just enough for everyone.
“Do you still love me now?” I remember repeating the question.
Alicia Lidwina 2017
Whenever I’m alone with you, I begin to hear sounds I usually don’t notice.
Like the sound of raindrops when we were waiting for the rain to subside on our first date.
Or the sound of a truck’s horn when we kissed sloppily in the dark alley, giggling our worries away.
Also the sound of a crying baby next door when we started talking about marriage; about convincing our parents and raising a child.
But among every sounds I have noticed, there were sounds I could never forget, even if I wanted to. They rang true and clear that day, and they ring even clearer now.
Like the sound of your laughter when you were having fun without me–the sound of them making jokes, and the sound of you responding in glee to every sentence.
Or the harmony of violin strings when you took her out to the concert, without knowing I also went to the same performance.
The sound of my own cries when I realized you were doing fine without me.
The cracking sound of threatened hopes and dreams–nurtured with and forsaken by love.
And the sound of my heart, breaking beyond repair, when you told me we couldn’t be together anymore.
I dedicate this post to L,
my true love, my broken Valentine
My writing career began roughly fifteen years ago.
Fifteen years–that’s a very long time, isn’t it? Certainly long enough for me to commit some very embarrassing writing moments. There should be something; a very over-the-top acknowledgements, crappy novel chapter, or a page from a diary.