Muse of Abandonment

I am the Muse of Abandonment, my quill dripping with a bitter ink concocted from love and hate. A month has scraped by, each sunrise a mocking reminder of your empty promises. My birthday, a date I loathe, looms two weeks away, a stark contrast to the vibrant future you once painted with your words.

We were a love story penned in vibrant hues, a shared dream sculpted from whispered vows and stolen glances. You were the sun chasing away the shadows in my soul, the melody that coaxed forgotten symphonies from my heart. My words flowed freely then, each poem a love letter etched in moonlight, a testament to a love I believed would defy all odds.

But fairytales have a cruel habit of turning into tragedies. Promises, like castles built on sand, crumbled before the harsh tide of reality. You, the sun that chased away my shadows, became a distant supernova, leaving behind a desolate wasteland of what could have been.

His goodbye, delivered with the bluntness of a summer storm, shattered it all. No theatrics, just a flat statement about "finding himself." Finding himself, apparently, meant leaving me adrift in the wreckage of our plans.

Now, I write with a fury that burns hotter than the love you extinguished. Each verse, a jagged shard of glass reflecting the fractured pieces of my heart. My birthday, a day I used to dread, is now a grotesque monument to your betrayal. You, who promised to be there, have become the very embodiment of the loneliness I once sought to escape.

The love I held for you, a boundless ocean, has curdled into a churning sea of resentment. The man who ignited my creative spark is now the fuel for my despair. I write not of love, but of the hollowness it leaves behind, the suffocating silence that echoes in the wake of your absence.

Perhaps, this is the cruelest irony. You, the man who ignited my creative spark, are now the escort of my despair. You'll live forever in my verses, not as the hero, but as the villain whose absence painted my world in shades of sorrow.

The final line of the poem bleeds onto the page: "You left me a writer, but stole my happily ever after." With a trembling hand, I crumple the paper, a silent scream echoing in the quiet room. The ink may dry, the pen may falter, but the Muse of Abandonment will forever write the narrative of my broken heart.

Reviews

[UncleFossil]

Some of the aspects in this based on my own track record on this network would be unfair to review because my review would be much longer than the piece itself; Taj Mahal Review from India has a deadline for submissions going to fall on May 25 of this year -- my cousin is also working on an anthology the thing with this would be with both this and Taj Mahal Review my cousin is looking for the 2600-3400 word range as the bare minimum then ideal range is 2400-6600 word-count; with The Taj Mahal Review some of the Saint Petersburg, Florida street population had some visuals worked on and was wondering if you can hammer that longer range out test without doing the same piece as the anthology entry or the literary journal but glazing into the same subject matter you can have the visual for the avatar of the work. Not a bad piece though I am going to say you could have something more potent in the higher-ranges.