I can almost see the creases deepening on your forehead as you read the words ‘ex-lover’. It’s the same four lines of worry that show whenever I get a spark of creativity. Well, you have good reason to frown, I’m breaking up with you. I would ask you not to cry, but your tears probably smell better than Victoria Secret perfumes, so by all means, do so. You always smell sooo good. Like you bathe in a spring of sunshine, rainbows,flowers and the glories of writers whose paths you’ve blocked. You are so homey, hugging you is like eating icecream. You are comfort and softness and sweetness and paralysis.
It’s not you love, ex-love, it’s me. You have so generous and kind, such a gracious host. How can I forget the amount of time spent sleeping with my head on your chest, as you held me and smothered every ounce of creativity in me. Or your prison of a hand, that goes around me and binds my thoughts. How could I possibly forget the softness of your skin? Made soft from the dreams of writers past. Or your home cooked delicacies, that dull the mind and send me to creative slumber. Or your promise of a life filled with regret, nothingness and emptiness on repeat.
It isn’t you, you are capable of no wrong. It’s me. Me with my larger than life dreams. Me whose mind refuses to be suffocated by you. It’s the voices in my head, ever chattering. Spitting words and speaking dreams. It’s my soul weaving. Weaving a future without you in it. It’s the creative wheels of my mind, screaming. Your immotility it too much a weight to bear. I wish I could be sad, muster up some pain just for show, but I can’t. It is with great feeling of ecstasy, that I write this. Goodbye, writers block. I wish I could say till we meet again, but the heaven I’m going has no place for you in it. Goodbye.