"I'm as afraid; as exposed; as vulnerable, as you are right now," I remember saying it on the day you were born.
Falling in love scares me to death, yet I'm so glad I kept it open. It’s probably one of the bravest thing one could do—fully aware you are walking on eggshells and you could have your heart torn into pieces.
I guess love is the hope you feel in your chest when you meet someone and you just know, in a bizarre and all-consuming way, that they are going to mean a lot to you, that you are going to clear a little corner of your soul out for them.
Love is a mess—yes, but my God, is it ever a beautiful one.
I still remember the day I met you for the first time again after 10 years passed by. You smiled at me that day, and the way you called me by my childhood name sounds so familiar—it is almost as if it never left your lips. You spell it fluently as if you recite it every day until the day we’d finally meet again.
“You were my first love,” you whispered to me tenderly, as I replied the very same to you.
Like a fairytale told in every classic stories, you came into my life out of thin air. I should’ve known by then that if something was too good to be true, it’s probably not true—or perhaps I was too naive to admit.
“We were in love and we were happy,” is the sentence I repeatedly mumbled to you as I hold back the scream off my lungs.
With all the sweet nothing, betrayal was something I did not see coming.
In the end, love alone is not enough.
You broke my heart when all I did was loving you.
Here I am on my bended knees; with my wounds wide open—wishing there comes a day where I’m no longer burning the bridges to ashes