The Song, The Gossip, The Love

You didn’t mean to remember the lyrics—
they slipped into you
like wind through a torn curtain,
soft at first,
then haunting.
A song is never just a song
once it finds a wound to echo in.

He had a voice like dusk—
all ember and hesitation.
You followed it,
like every girl who swears
she’s different,
like every fool who thinks
the refrain won’t repeat.

She played that melody
over and over again,
until it wasn’t a song anymore,
just a ghost in the kitchen,
in your toothbrush,
in the soft groan of the mattress
where he used to breathe beside you.

The power of song
is that it remembers
when you forget.
It sharpens where you blur.

It holds the heat
of conversations never had,
the apology
he never gave.


---

And then, gossip.
Oh, how the world loves
a whispered thing.

They don’t care
what’s true—
only that it sings
on the tongue.

She wore red that day,
so she must have wanted it.
He left without a note—
what else did you expect?
They say you cried outside his building,
your eyeliner running like a sentence
without punctuation.

You tell yourself
you don’t care.
You wear headphones
even when the music’s not playing.

But still—
still you feel
their mouths shaping your story,
their laughter
smudging the edges
of your carefully folded grief.

The art of gossip
is a cruel masterpiece—
half-fact,
half-fantasy,
fully fanged.

They admire the tragedy
but never ask where it hurts.

They never hear
how you begged the universe
for just one more verse
before silence took him.


---

And mad love—
what of it?

She met him
on a Wednesday,
which seemed harmless enough.
But the moon was wrong that night,
too full,
too knowing.

He said things like
“You’re not like the others,”
and you believed him,
because you wanted to.
Because madness
masquerades as meaning
when you’re lonely enough.

You gave him
your mornings,
your margins,
your metaphors.
He gave you
a hunger
you couldn’t unlearn.

Mad love is a mirror
that lies kindly at first.
It tells you
you’re luminous,
untouchable,
necessary.

But it always turns.

It becomes a storm
with your name on it.
It teaches you
that passion without patience
is a blade.

She once screamed at a wall
until her voice cracked
like a bad record.
You think of her sometimes—
how she lit candles
to people who didn’t deserve
that kind of worship.

You remember your own burning—
the letters never sent,
the dinners untouched,
the way your friends
learned to say his name
like a bruise
they couldn’t press.


---

And yet,
you still hum the song.
You still check
if he’s online.

You still flinch
at strangers’ laughter,
wondering if they know
your heartbreak
like a headline.

This is not weakness.
This is being human.

Some nights
you will ache in poems
you can’t yet write.
Other nights
you’ll laugh,
genuinely,
and feel the light return.

She, too, survived.
She wore her scars
like spine.

You will reach a place
where the song no longer stings,
where gossip fades
into static,
where mad love
is just a story
you tell
with a sigh
and a smile.

You will write new lyrics.
And someone—
not him—
will sing them back to you
without flinching.

You will sit across from someone
who doesn’t try to finish your sentence
with silence.
They will know
you are not a myth
to be broken into.

They will stay
when the world turns loud again.

Because someday,
the song
will be yours.
The art
will be in your hands.
The price
will have been paid.
And the love—
the sane, slow,
unshakeable love—
will cost you nothing
but the courage
to begin again.

#Poetry #MadLove #HealingJourney #Heartbreak #GossipCulture #Emotional #ThePowerOfSong #SpokenWord #Resilience