The love for chocolate chip has sadly tipped from desire to discernment. Alas, the intolerance for the stale, the safe, and the over familiar, birth the evolution of taste.
A new register for aliveness has alerted your nervous system. Now you can’t go back to that old sweetness, without it tasting dead.
The narrator may be unstable, however, the arc that this poem follows is actually very coherent. This is no villain monologue. There’s no justification and no blame shifting.
Just a field note from an individual with turbulence dependence
Round and round we spin.
So yes.
If we spiral
We do it beautifully
On purpose
And we land on our feet.
This is not collapse.
It is a controlled rotation.
I learned to divide myself
not out of cleverness
but out of need.
To keep the engine running,
each part learned its station:
one for winning,
one for not sitting still long enough
for the floor to give way.
Stillness was expensive.
Motion paid the bills.
I organized my inner life
like a system under pressure
efficient,
quiet,
appearing whole.
You can know it was final.
You can know why it ended.
You can feel clear about .incompatibilities and timing.
And the heart still says: I miss her 😰.
the Purgatory of a Broken Heart 