The swings of my mood over you are far more interchangeable than I'd ever care to let you know.
I let myself believe that I'd fallen out of love with you, once,
and ******* that was a brutal ten hours that I'll never be able to take back
because now that I let my head entertain itself with the idea that you may very well break my heart
one day,
my first instinct is to blink back the tears and guard
the poor, pathetic, helpless weakling that is my
truest self--
to guard that infantile child behind
a titanium wall of stoicism;
metallic sleeves shielding the heart draped beneath them as they shine with the cool, pragmatic demeanor of a straight-faced soldier staring into the gaping pit of obscurity
because love is, granted, a magical concept,
but it simultaneously happens to equivocate to something perfectly horrifying,
and the frailty of my withering heart is, day-in and day-out, under constant scrutiny,
for I would rather not
have to mend
the torn up pieces left behind by your indifference.
Loving you scares me more than I'd ever care to let you know.