Dear Death.

Dear Death.


I loved you the way I fell in love for the first time. You were my first love, my high-school sweetheart. On most days, I no longer loved you, but there was always romance in thinking about you, there’s always romance in retrospect. The idea of you was strangely comforting. I knew you, and you were real – probably too real. You were not an abstraction, you were tangible. You were the scars in my wrist – like initials etched to the corner of my notebook with a doodle of a heart next to it; you were the empty stomach and hunger pangs – you were butterflies in my stomach. You were every song that I related to, you were every poem that spoke to me. You were comfort, you were home.


I know I shouldn’t entertain the idea of you, I know that I can’t keep holding on to the comfort of you forever. But the allure in your cold console keeps me coming back to you. But in the arsenal of sad songs that I’ve found solace in, I’ve found one line that says, ‘how can I move on when I am still in love with you?’. And how can I, when you’re the closest to comfort, closest to security, closest to salvations I have come to?


You were my first love.


You’re familiar. You are comfort and you’ve got me wrapped in your fingers convinced that no one would understand or love me like you do. Every time I walk away, I keep running right back to you. I’ve built a home out of you. But like two lovers feeding off each others insecurities and being oblivious to the detriment, we lost our way and entangled as one, we became one. Like all toxic relationships, walking away from you was the hardest thing to do. Because as the cliché goes, you accept the love you think you deserve, and lord knows I’ve accepted you with arms wide open welcoming you to the deepest part of me.



But its time to let go.


I know its going to be the hardest goodbye. Wanting you back at 3.00 am, crying, crippled in pain and not being able to reach out to you is going to be the most infuriating thing. I will need you back, I will try to rationalise how running back to you in the right thing to do, I will replay the comfort and safety of your embrace around me over and over again.


But I will not come back,


I will not.


I’m leaving you for another.


You were the one who taught me to love unconditionally; to give you my all until there was nothing left. And I’m thankful that you’ve revealed a side of me that I was previously not privy to. For revealing to me that I can shatter time and time again, and still rebuild myself. For revealing to me that I will give and give till it appears there is nothing left, and then still have more love to give. For revealing to me that when I break, I will get back on my feet for there is more love that I am yet to give.


But he, he is different. He is teaching me how to be loved.  Before him, I never knew what it was like to shatter, over and over again, only to find someone patiently shelter you while put your pieces back together. Before him, I knew that I deserve the love I effortlessly give other people. Before him, I never knew that I could be broken as could be, but my broken parts still deserve love – the same way sunlight kisses broken mirrors even after its shattered to a million pieces, revealing a beauty previously unseen.


I must confess, he is harder to love. The picture of him isn’t as flawless as yours. Some days he has messy hair, some days he has circles under his eyes that speak for his exhaustion. But on other days, he smiles like an angel and welcomes me with open arms to a warm embrace, reminding me that the good days will always come around and are worth holding on for. He is not perfect; he is not definitive. He is fickle at his best, but even when he is inconsistent, I swear, there is still love in those eyes like I’ve never seen before.


Dear Death, I’m leaving you for him,


I’m choosing Life instead.





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