I’ve met too many men who loved my surface but feared my depth. I’m a crazy, chaotic maelstrom of laughter and warmth, happiness and nostalgia. I’m a hurricane of feelings and words, twisted and entwined in one sweep of existence. I’ve accepted my soul’s truth and complexity and I won’t apologize for it.
It didnt matter that the sky above us was exploding into a myriad of colors. I could not hear anything but his laugh, I could not see anything but his smile. The beautiful lights were nothing like the twinkle in his eyes. Everything was magical and mesmerizing, and like us, over too soon.
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.
Tonight, the bartender asked me “what’s your poison?”, and I wanted to respond with your name. But the truth is, they have yet to learn how to bottle love, how to create a drug that’s potent enough to mimic the intoxicating addiction of another person’s heart, beating in time with yours.
So I will settle for a bottle of tequila for now, and a hangover strong enough to help me forget selected memories, even if only for a night.
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.