dil kharab;

There is no word in the English language for it, but in Urdu, it roughly translates to "heart-wrong".
I think there is something so powerful about this word. To feel heart-wrong, because you have been wronged and your heart aches for it. Because you are un-well, and it will never be the same, even after it gets better. There is no way to fix it, not really.

It has gotten better. His memory no longer makes me weep. I am not bound to him, by word, or by deed. I don't care what he does, where he does it, with whom he does it. I used to worry so much about him, once. I used to feel guilt -- unmeasurable waves of it washing against me each and every day. Leaving me heavy with regret, beaten down and dejected.

I loved him. I think I did. Some days I wish I loved him more. Other days, I wish I had never loved him at all. Most of the time, I do not remember him. Once in a while, I wish we had fallen in love.

We were selfish. I know that now. I wasn't the victim I felt myself to be; not from Thursday to Sunday, at least.

He wronged me.

I wronged him too.

For every tear I shed, I forced ten out of him. They were bitter, and tasted of heartbreak, touched with a tinge of plastic and a hint of cheap aerosol paint. It felt rusty to the touch, and sometimes I could taste the blood at the back of my tongue, and see the red in his eyes.

I was never moved.

He suffers, in silence. There is noise. His laughter sounds a lot like resentment, and there is unhappiness shining in every smile. The strain of silence makes him taciturn, and irritating to the touch. His love hurts now, more than ever. It is his weapon, not his shield. He always held that against me.

Indifference was always my finest armour. Vanity was his. But ruthlessness cuts deeper than pride, and it was easy to cut him down to the knee. I walked, and I swam, and I watched him drown.

Dil-kharab.

His lies hit home. my truths became sour grapes for his wine. He drinks it sparingly, and always washes it down with the sweet reds of colder places in higher grounds where the vineyards are his own, and abundant. This is his secret stash, and he only offers the best to those he entertains.

I am his best-kept secret - the one that everyone knew. I'm his worst mistake and his biggest regret. He's the least of my problems, and has the minimum of my thoughts. Yet, he has some of me. Or had. Or wishes that sometime he'd had. I hold no wishes for him, not one.

I tore down our empty house and planted flowers on the field we used to share. He built a prison atop what was before, a place where sinners go to rot, and stay, and wish and pray for Hell.

I burned the books I wrote -- the very ones he never read. I wanted to say I loved him, but the words never made it to my head. His name died somewhere in a fire, a small, insignificant flame. I cut mine on his forearm, clean with blades of anger sharpened with our mistakes.

I heard time betters everything, but people never change.

I am sick of the heart, sick to my stomach.

It feels wrong, but I know it is only right. And it will never be the same, but one day, it will be repaired.

My wounds -- the ones he gave me and those I gave myself -- no longer hurt. All my bruises faded, and I have tougher skin. My scars, I cannot remember where they are, or why.

But my heart knows; it knows with every beat it has. That it feels wrong now, but is only right.

Dil-kharab.