The misadventures of the heart and sometimes, the stomach.

To The Other Woman.



I wanted to blame you for everything.

And I suppose for the longest time, I did.

I did it because it was easier. It was cowardly, I admit; but it was easy.

It was so much easier to point the finger, accuse, shift the blame to you than to admit that I was wrong.

But we both know that it wasn’t you.

It was me.


You weren’t the reason behind why he gave up on me and that our relationship fell apart.

It wasn’t your fault. How could you have known?

How could you have known that he lies to me about talking to you but I see

him pulling his phone out of the pocket even before my train pulls away from the station,

when he thinks I’m fast asleep and won’t notice the pathetic attempt to hide the faint glow of his phone beneath the sheets.

How could you have known of the fights during the day, and the ones at night that I fight alone?


It was my insecurities that magnified your beauty, your talent – making you more than what you were.

It was my demons who convinced me that he would always look at you as the girl who got away and

that I would always always be in between apologies and always always on the cusp of not quite good enough

But in truth, you were just a girl.

Beneath that skinny jeans, oversized camera and unholy obsession with #hashtags, you were just like everyone else.

Not anymore beautiful, nor talented than I am.


I am sorry that I did not believe

you when you said that he was no more than a friend

him when he said that he only loved me.


But most of all,

I am sorry that I did not believe in me.


Is it too late now to say that I’m sorry?

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