A year ago today, I painted a girl in a red Summer dress with matching socks and ribbons in her hair. Her arms outstretched, reaching for the light. Only, the light was a piece of rope dangling, and it wasn’t Summer.
A year ago today, there was fish in the river. They had bulging green eyes and bulging silver bellies. We fed them by noon. They were bullets. And they weren’t drowning then.
A year ago today, I wrote letters I never sent. They’re gathering dust by now, in between yellowed pages, tucked away behind the bible. But oh, how they showed me how a heart isn’t just a bird caged inside my chest.
A year ago today, I asked myself what it would feel like to fall in love. Because I was afraid to. I asked myself what it would feel like to be loved in return, before calling myself foolish. I asked myself how it would feel like to have my heart broken into a million pieces, the same way poets have been writing of for the past centuries. I asked myself why a question mark resembled half a heart, until my eyes became too heavy. And I realised the answers resembled the other half.
A year ago today, I asked you to love me. You never did fill your half of the heart.
Today, I had the urge to fill that gap separating the red girl’s fingertips from the light. I had the urge to dance with the fishes. I had the urge to write to you. And mail it this time too. I had the urge to have my heart broken into a million and one pieces. Today, I had the urge to be happy.