Heartbreak Diaries #5: Why the hell am I writing about my ex?

I'm still chocking with unsaid words, apparently.

4th of July of 2025 — 20:05
Edinburgh, Scotland

Why the hell am I still writing about him?
Why does it still feel like I have things to say
Even though I don’t think about him often?
Even though I felt at peace
from the very first day I woke up single
Being certain that this is for the best?
Even though I had no trouble moving on
With plans
With lovers
With houses
With dream
With life?

Even though I didn’t like living in Germany?
Even though I wasn’t fully fulfilled anymore?
Even though I don’t think I am hurting anymore?
Even though I’ve been only feeling better since I left
what used to be
our home?

Even though I’ve been feeling more love in these last four months
than I felt in the entire last year?
Even though I wouldn’t want to be with him anymore?
Even though I’ve got more passionate kisses
from new mouths?
Even though I’ve had way better sex
with a better fit
with more lust
and hunger
after him?

Even though my body no longer flinches at the memory of his?
Even though I’ve whispered sweeter names into softer pillows?
Even though I’ve exhaled in new languages, in safer arms, in warmer beds?

Why
The
Hell
Am
I
Still
Writing
About
This
Last
Chapter?

If my mind
Body
Soul
Time
Energy
And presence
Are in the next?

I just came to the simple
Yet mind blowing
Realisation:
I never said anything to him.

I nodded
I cried
I understood
I thanked him
I said I loved him
And wished him all the best
With a smile
Love notes
And a kind voice

I was a good girl
I was easy
I was understanding

I
Was
Fucking
Passive.

Me?!
Me.
ME.
The one who speaks her truth like poetry.
Who walks into rooms like storms.
Who never shrinks.
Who built a life from ashes.

ME.
Still
Caught
In the
Good girl script.

I couldn’t stand being the villain
I couldn’t stand saying hurtful things
I couldn’t stand just saying what I felt
What I thought
What I wanted

Because I thought
This would make me a bad person
Revengeful
Ungrateful
Unloved by his people

So instead I smiled
While I was breaking in the middle
Actually
While
HE
Was
Breaking
Me
In
The
Middle

Ripping me apart with his silence.
Dismissing my softness as drama.
Leaving me to bleed in rooms he no longer entered.

So now I write
I let myself say the words
I forgot I could say
That I didn’t allow myself to say
And that I know
He no longer wants to hear
Or actually
That he never wanted
Just like I never wanted to hear his
But he fucking said them anyway
So
Why
Couldn’t
I?

Why did I hold my tongue like it wasn’t mine?
Why did I protect him like he hadn’t already let go of me?

Maybe this knot in my throat is all these stuck words
Maybe this weight in my chest is the pressure accumulated
Maybe this heaviness of breathing is the heaviness of holding it all inside
When everything inside you wants to scream

I LOVED YOU.
AND YOU LET ME DROWN.
WITHOUT EVEN LOOKING BACK.
WITHOUT EVEN ASKING IF I SWAM.

Every poem is a howl you never deserved to hear.
Every breath I take is proof that I made it out.

So yeah —
Maybe I’m still writing about him.
But only because
I didn’t get to scream.

And this
is the sound
of my scream.