A Final Fuck You
Go and come back no more
The day has arrived, that one for which I’ve waited for so long,
Like a last verse in a final fuck you song,
This has been a catastrophic never-ending day where I did not belong,
Horrid from the start and gaining traction into all that was wrong.
**
Three hundred and sixty five days made up this devastating year,
Taking my happiness, my confidence, my joy and leaving me with my fear,
Most hours destroying my heart, taking so much of what I held dear,
Kissing my lips with the pain, the torment and an everlasting tear.
**
I prayed I’d sleep longer, in fact I prayed I’d never wake,
Wanting to escape the heartache, needing timeout for my sake,
But instead I was put through the turmoil as you continued to take,
Destroying my days and laughing at the efforts I’d make.
**
You turned me into a pathetic and harrowing mess,
As I wallowed in the deepest of my distress,
A pool of sorrow in which you saw me constantly dress,
Morning after morning as you unloaded even more tortured stress.
**
Time did not heal, no it was the worst of your gift,
I tried to hang in there and hope for the end of the rift,
But you pulled the strings that dropped me, when I hoped for a lift,
And threw me into the waves of unhappiness and left me to drift.
**
I tried to harden my heart and pretend I did not care,
So you threw more my way, insisting I share,
You broke me, destroyed me and left my soul bare,
Leaving me nothing and making out it was fair wear and tear.
**
I spent the bulk of this year living life feeling blue,
You gave me more torment and left me to stew,
When I felt it was the end, you laughed deeply, because you knew,
So this dear 2023 is my final fuck you!
Please click the link below my name to read more of my work. I would also like to thank you for taking the time to read this today and for all your support.
If you enjoy this piece, you may enjoy this one too.
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Originally published on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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More stories from Colleen Millsteed and writers in Poets and other communities.
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaa day ago in Poets
Comments (7)
Well said. May 2024 be as good to you as 2023 was bad. It's only fair. (Karma, right?)
So raw and powerful. Well done!
This was so raw, poignant, emotional and that ending felt so liberating! I hope this was as cathartic to write as I felt to read!
Great work Colleen. Very edgy and heartfelt! Well done! ☺️👍 Hoping a happier 2024!!
Love your final lines!!! Perfectly pure and powerful!!!
That was powerful. Well done.
Oh I really felt the rawness of your thoughts and emotions almost as a physical blow. Well done