Love is being held in somebody’s arms for 40 minutes straight and they don’t pull away. They don’t look at your face. They don’t try to kiss you. All they do is wrap you up in their arms and hold on tight, without an ounce of selfishness to it. And love is forgetting they did that for you because love is hard to stay.
Love is rage spread thin. It is madness. It is the depths in which we’ve gone to profess and to prove, love is sadness. Love has made me cry at my reflection in the mirror, love has made me scream and claw at it. It has turned me unrecognizable, impermeable through my running mascara and the scars upon my skin. Love is shattering glass and love is running barefoot at night in a neighborhood of barbed wires and metal around the windows. Love is destruction, to peel away at the layers of your skin and bones and to watch your flesh on the dirt remake themselves anew. Love is disgustingly pathetic, self-humiliation and love is blindness. Love is pure devotion. It is mean and it is fabricated. It’s all that it is cracked out to be and a little more. Love is the fine line between fucking and making, it is felt by the most wasted hearts. Love makes you cringe. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck curl like grapevines only to tighten and choke the tears you promised yourself you would not cry. Love makes you beautiful and so so ugly, at the same time. It is the diabolic hope dangled on a string, the purposeful pulsing of blood, the fleeting moments of coherence, of infinite. It is the plight of the hopeful and the hopeless, it is the medium in which we find ourselves most comfortably insane. And then, when you come back down, you find that love is.. humbling. It is the softest and prettiest affliction. And it is so fucking real.