Love.

Love.

This word. Everyone wants it. One of the shortest words, most simple words, but means the absolute world to everyone on this god-dammed, sad planet. I thought he cared, I thought he “loved” me. Here’s the tragic poem I wrote, I told you it was real. Are you sure you’re ready for this?

(reading the poem) “Every hug, an embrace, every kiss, with care, he traces my skin with a gentle hand to let me know he is there, we laugh until I get… a stitch.”

Fuck this... Yeah, you get the point. “Head over heels”, or whatever else they say. Wasn’t I stupid. He made me feel ‘beautiful’, he made me feel wanted, he made me feel… lucky.

(reading the poem) “To have someone as present as he, it doesn’t matter where, when, what, why- there is always time for me”

I was open. Truly open. My eyes were like vaults, unlocked. It wouldn’t stop. It wouldn’t fucking stop! All I could see was love, this sickly fucking, pink, wrapped up in a bow, love.

(reading the poem) “Every touch of his hand, every smell of his head, makes me want to eternally lie in bed, with him the one, I can say I adore…”

I can finish that now.

(Taking the piss out of it)-“But now: nothing. I fell to the floor”.

He didn’t explain anything, his feelings apparently died, he wasn’t ‘feeling it’ anymore. How the fuck can that happen if you say you’re in love? Did he not understand my feelings? Did he not feel that too?

(to him) Was it just comforting, knowing someone was in awe of you, utterly adored you, that me... your safety net. Could just be thrown away when your confidence rose? When you felt important, when you felt wanted, needed. Alive on your own. I was the one that took away that cold, the way you said life had no meaning- I guided you, comforted you. Gave you everything I had. I helped you up. And you were done, after that one, pointless fuck. What kind of person are you?