𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑

"𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑"

I.
And perhaps I did want to be loved,

And held,

And caressed,

And left with a bruise that for once did not swell on the skin but on the heart from where it brushed against my ribs when it could not beat any faster from the innocent adoration that once filled it.

Perhaps I want the marks that stain my skin to be a tender flush so unshamingly brought on by the declaration of our half-drunken vows.

Perhaps I want to feel love and love alone.

II.
In my dreams, I have a lover, in my nightmares too. He goes by different aliasses, different names, different backgrounds but always without a face.

In my dreams, and too my nightmares, my lover holds me dear enough to kill me.

He never wears a face, never wears an identity. it is an unpersonal task, a command without substance; loving me wholeheartedly enough to kill me.

In the best dreams, he never says that he loves me. In my worst nightmares, he confessed his affections almost instantly; there is no battle, nor is their suffering. Still, I am slowly dying in the worst, most torterous way possible.

III.
I write about love, but truly the thing I'm writing about is imagination, the string of fantasies spun together in something that could have been misplaced for affection; a wild thing, unpredictable yet with the lining of genuine heart that many miss in the slow beating of their own.

It speaks to the soul and perhaps I write about the ensnaring of two spirits and their tangle into each other, a hopless battle that will never seize, an unbroken cord of emotions mixed together and glazed in red for that is the only way I know two people to bond.

IV.
I have never been adverse to the idea of love, never despised it truly.

I was adverse to the painful inevitably of its demise; the perhaps distant, but surely promised sound of shattering hearts-fractures to be mended only with new unfruitful promises made with the ignorant wish to make it last a little while longer.

Choked up blood behind loving smiles; I will not be able to keep it contained within me, for I cannot speak without falling back in the past, in the truth.

The blood will fall, and so will the pillars of our love; the structural ignorance and bloodied prints.

V.
The word love has never been quite a thing destined to be described by the syllables of my thoughts. It is a thing best left to other passionate souls who carry the bravery to curse themselves in the name of love.

VI.
Indeed, perhaps I did want to be loved. Perhaps I want to feel love and love alone.