There is something about our sweet destruction that is so irresistible to the senses. Day by day, I am becoming accustomed to the crashing, the breaking, the wild, spinning-madly-out-of-control bliss as our language. I look forward to waking up with you coffee ground into my spine, as my body melts in your hands like heroin on spoon, attempting to spell addiction in my pulse.
I don’t remember you tasting like anything other than last night’s alcohol, yesterday’s could be’s, and this morning’s regrets. I remember you like my wine glass, more than half full of air and broken promises. Although my body still aches of places you called home, this only happened because it was too dark for me to tell the difference between concrete and collarbone.
What we had wasn’t love, maybe it was loneliness, maybe it was lust, maybe it was simply wanting to feel again. Yet somewhere along the way, we made the silent decision to call it love because neither of us really knew what we were. Giving monsters pretty names doesn’t change anything.
I am more lioness than girl. I am more snarl than smile. I am not the silent type purring sighs into your chest. The way that I will scream your name is more roar than moan, as my nails claw the flesh of your backbone. I am the insatiable beast of the night and morn.
Save for the moments between sunset and darkness, when your fingertips find the curve of my waist, and you pull my raging form tight against our heaving breaths and heartstrings.
There is nothing romantic about a love that used to be, a love that happened, and then ended, just like everything else in the world. People often romanticize tragedy, like the kiss that almost was, the “maybe” that could have been but will remain a “what if” forever. There is nothing beautiful about something that once was, but died. Ended. Failed.
Through clenched teeth and failing knees, my soul resiliently hums a symphony of hope. I know my heart will heal, fear will loosen its icicle claws. But for now, each keystroke soothes and revives the tender ears of my forlorn heart, as it listens to the tune of a humble song that calloused feet keep pressing on.
I’m not the type who takes a lot of selfies. Today, he took a hundred horrible pictures of me, and said he loved each one. I could feel that he meant it. Is this how it is to h e a l ? Unlearning panic and believing when a person says they won’t leave you, having the courage to trust. Again. I just have to learn to stop being scared of saying that.
I hand him the pathetic me on a plate: the clingy, demanding, hot-tempered version of myself, gift-wrapped in insecurities. And he opens his arms, closes his eyes, cradles my stubbornness like a child, and hugs and kisses me blindly. That is what love does, he says, that is w h a t l o v e i s.