night before valentine’s/bad breakup poetry

“That last half an hour of studying was fucking pointless.”

I kept rereading about crimes against humanity and missing the subtle differences between various definitions and switching back and forth so frequently between that and writing really terrible breakup poety that at one point I was confused about what I was looking at, notes or confused scribblings about bipolar love.

I went home and greeted my roommate with the aforementioned realization in quotations then opened a box of girl scout cookies my best friend’s daughter had given me. Those Samoas-good stuff.

I should call P back. I already blew him off for Little Italy earlier today and he’s not the type of friend to let me wallow in self-pity. Plus, having issues with bipolar love himself, he gets what kind of animal I’m dealing with. His opinion was that I deliver an ultimatum to man up or bust- which was a bust. His opinion also is that I get the hell out of the house, and he’s not the type to insist. And he was insisting as I was busy evading until my phone died at the cafe. Tonight a bunch of his friends are going to 4th and B for some Mardi Gras madness. I just can’t party two days in a row like I once could. And Nunu’s last night with some drunk girl making out in the corner then yelling “hold your cooter” was somehow not inspiring.

Well, I definitely can’t get any more studying done. I’ve been trying since 7 this morning…granted I took a nap and met up with a friend in between but I’ve done enough to dissipate the guilt that any fellow overachiever would feel on a long weekend.

Alternatively, I’ve made a list of “happy hobbies” that should get me through this (like I don’t have enough already). Writing was not on the list since it’s a given. But ping pong, line-dancing, and making new friends were just a few of the dazzling 21 options-not to mention making glitter cards for holidays and special events!

I don’t want to dress up to go downtown and I don’t want to stay here and eat girl scout galletas! So I guess I better get out there and play some ping pong.

Otherwise I end up creating poemas that are too raw, and probably inappropriate, like this:

bipolar love, by ola hadi, 2.13.10

You don’t exist
the person that wrote poetry
the person that sucked my toes
during wild and ecstatic
mindblowing experiences
who pressed his palm warmly on
my forehead to ease headaches
is the source of all my heartache

non-existent appendages haunt me
Memories
of You gulfing down sandwiches at Cafe Cream
or holding my hand as we read at Twiggs
are crumbs of what they could have been
need be tempered with boycotts
of any coffee from Cafe Calabria
(of any haunted place/city college class/future us)
because a bitter taste masks what was
like cheap perfume
destroys any scents of truth
leaves me utterly
confused

because You were better than this
because I am better than this
and the You I knew
doesn’t deserve equating
with your present lack of existence
so I will be disassociating
the love You were
from the hurt
neither of us deserve
I will try not to suffer-
I will not suffer
I will Want this to be over
because it already is
for the you You are now

were You a mixed up kid or
hot air I mistook for “it”?
a cold wind blowing through
leaving love
frigid?

I prefer to think “it” was real
(as if You were two different people)
the feelings we felt
the warmth of your fingers
(and of my toes)
but I have to let go
of the crumbs of love

You no longer exist.

(so why am I writing this?)

©ola hadi 2010