Why did you follow me?

Why did you follow me?

Creative Writing

Apr 27

Written By Betty Yas

We argued in the kitchen last night

I was making dinner

why did you follow me?

I told you not to raise your voice at me

because I take fright

and feel my heart racing inside

why did you follow me?

I took the knife and planted it in your chest

red wine out of your heart

it smeared my carpet

"not my carpet, man!!"

"I love this carpet!"

I remember when I bought it with Sam in Japan

Such a romantic man, wasn’t he?

He never raised his voice at me

He was gentle and loved me very much

He wanted to give me the world

The same world I was trying to give you

But you

You're a black hole

you swallowed my voice

made my hands clammy

made me say what I didn't think

You taunted my colors

yes, they weren’t that bright

but they were mine and I liked them

You constantly made me long

then changed your mind

and said I’ll never belong

To this same world I wish you would give me

You look at me and something’s always missing

I tell you

Look at me

I’m a proven experiment

have a little faith

but you choose to only see an attempt

like I’m bad science

like a bad hypothesis that sets the lab on fire

If you could only consider my effort

You perpetually refused to see me for me

Until I noticed your wrists for the first time

and started getting pleasures of flesh

the vein popping under your watch

the agitated red wine under your serene skin

the poisoned heart of yours that poisoned mine

Forgive me, I can barely recognize myself

But why delay the inevitable?

I always knew it’ll happen around 9 o’clock

Isn’t that funny?

God, I feel relieved

Why am I relieved?

Instead of holding your hand and take over the skies

I’m holding a knife with which I just took your life

But It’s absurd how relieving this feels

It’s like God sent me a custom-made cloud as a reward for my eternal rest

You know

you look gracefully beautiful still and motionless

but somehow, I can still hear you inside my head

no, you’re not screaming at me this time

you’re speaking the words you stole from me

you’re speaking what was once mine

the words that could’ve been poems and songs

my voice

my colors

my thoughts

the lab and my possible outcomes.

Thumbnail Image: © Santiago Traverso (@travers_photo)

Poetry by Hajar Ed Berdouz

Born and raised in Morocco, Hajar is a Media Intelligence student living in Paris. She’s passionate about literature, psychology and spirituality, and dreams to be a novelist someday.