prescription for a heartbreak.

by Saheen Rahman.

don’t take his name, or name him something pretty,
like the poets in love do.
don’t dictate stories about your love,
or make poetry out of your love for him.
don’t gulp down some cheap whiskey or
smoke up weed in his remembrance.
don’t ask the waiter to put two cubes of sugar in your coffee,
because that’s how he liked his.
don’t spend another of your nights
trying to find ways to help someone
who is broken.
don’t make his bed, if he doesn’t let your love rest.
his arrival, unannounced like november rain,
unwanted like unplanned pregnancy.
he got you caught up in a tornado.
he showered on your life,
so harshly, so mercilessly,
with repercussions so many
that you must’ve lost count now.
don’t let him win.
close your doors today, bolt it proper.
tomorrow, don’t let your pen write another word for him, about him.
mend your own skin.
fix your own heart
before trying to save him from drowning.
write poetry about your breasts,
or your kindness that knows no bound.
drink wine to celebrate victories,
more so to acknowledge failures.
drink your coffee exactly how you like it.
two cubes of sugar hurts your teeth anyway.
make your own bed, let your love rest.
fill up your own body,
here’s a gentle reminder that you can’t pour from an empty cup.