Turn Heartache to Poetry

Ending a romantic relationship may be necessary, but it can also be unbelievably painful. In the aftermath, you spend your days with your head on a pillow and covers up to your chin. You stay up all night and then listen to the birds sing early morning hymns. You veg out on the couch watching reruns of outdated sitcoms or dramas. You avoid phone calls and texts, and if you do eat something, it's normally something cheesy like Cheetos or you drink something hot like black tea. Your mentality is to give in to self pity and give up on everything else. Well, here's one way you can combat your feelings of pain, hurt, anger, and poor self worth. Put pen to paper or finger to key pad and turn your heartache into poetry.
 
Check out my three-part break up poem and tell me what you think.

The Breakup

He filleted my heart with words
— deliberate, trimmed of sentiment
blunt and laced with sanctimony —

his voice, all piss and vinegar.
His touch, all acid and gravel,
my essence recoiled. He sighed noisily,
it wafted above the sizzle of hot grills
and chatter of salad plates. The smiling server,
fragrant with smoked and roasted meat,
brought his entree. He sliced rare porterhouse,

spooning its juices over caramelized onions and
beckoned for the wine list. He sniffed Bordeaux.
I sipped Perrier laced with lemon

feeling my heart beat crescendo.
Forever meant only two years.

After the Breakup —Week 1

I am a pale yellow room —

vacant, scented with methane, with sulfur.

I am a desert, a wilderness
of bare mountain peaks and valleys
with dried creeks littered
with carcass and carrion

and breathless vapor.

I am the earth parched and layered with the

glow of smoldering lava.

I am a branch chopped and sawed
and cut and cracked, decayed and stained
with bloody excrement.
I am language without verbs and nouns.

I am held in a snapshot, on a canvas,
in a memory, in a breath, in a sigh.

I am a gift unwrapped, untouched, unknown, unseen.
But, I am.

After the Breakup —Week 4

My memories have starched edges

that fold stiffly. I wrap them
in hollow groans that echo from arid places,

in heartache that beat a dirge of betrayal,

in flesh-cutting rage that spills red on white linen.

They’re packed away in apathy.

One day I will shake them free,

hang them in green meadows
where warm breezes filter blossoms through red linen

releasing fragrant petals.

Pour l’instant:
Fall on me Catoctin.
Bake me in your burnished oven Mount Makushin, and
baste me with scented ash.
Tap me on the shoulder great morning light,
shake ice petals from my eyes,
let me sniff black dandelions.