You tell me that you love me, but I don't think that you know what that really means.
"Darling, you're brilliant. Divine. Just-- sublime!" You tell me that the things that I create are masterpieces. Worthy of being displayed next to Rembrandt, or published next to the writings of Emily Dickinson. You spin me around the room, my toes barely skimming the hardwood, hands on my waist. Then: your hands on my face, breath on my cheek, and suddenly your lips are on mine, and you say it. And I believe you.
But
You don't tell me that you love me when I am crashing. You don't have your arms around me when I haven't left my bed in days, or when I can't go to the supermarket to pick up milk because I am afraid of strangers in the parking lot. Suddenly, the words change. "Darling, you're being paranoid. Nobody will follow you home. Don't you understand? It's all in your head." But you never say it, do you? Suddenly, I am not the person that you love, but her ghost.
You don't love me, you love the parts of me that convenience you the most.
Words have meaning. You must watch your words carefully, feed them and care for them. A word rooted in hatred is poison, slithering out of your mouth and into the minds of those you love. What is the opposite of loving words? Absence.
Darling, they weren't exaggerating. The highs are high, and the lows are unimaginable.
Watch your words.
YOU ARE READING
Kiss Me, Kill Me
Poetry"HE is my morning star." In which I attempt to write something meaningful. [#381 in Poetry 11.10.16]
