I was in love once. Or at least I think it was love. It was that gut wrenching wait up til 2am just hoping she’ll drunk call so you could hear her voice love.
The kind that you hold onto for dear life even though you know the expiration date is way past it’s point but the thought of getting sick from it is your farthest thought.
That maybe if you don’t look and you close your eyes it’ll still taste good.
It’ll still smell good.
But **** it’s spoiled milk and it’s rotting.
You need to throw it away.
Take out the trash so the whole house won’t smell.
I always ****** at cleaning out the fridge anyway.
Was that my life at some point?
One refrigerator filled with the many expired things that I was too lazy to throw out because it was too much work.
Too much work to let go because you didn’t want to face the truth.
Is that what love is?
Or is love just what you make of it.
It can be something light and pure or rough and disgusting.
I feel like I can still smell it.
A smell that can’t go away of a rotting relationship that always was meant to end because we were temporary.
We aren’t real and we definitely weren’t a non perishable that would whether the storm or the hurricane, not even a nuclear bomb.
No matter how thick the doors were we were meant to tumble.
Is that love?
Risking the possibility that no matter how many barricades you build or how much food you stock you are doomed to starve to death or die from explosion.
Love can be spoiled milk.
Fresh and sweet even though you know that eventually it’ll turn bitter and gross.
You buy it anyway.
You put it in your cart,
you keep shopping,
you walk out the store and you put away the groceries.
Hoping that you don’t let it all go to waste even though milk wasn’t even on your grocery list. Love is like Target.
You go in for one thing and you come out with a million.
You don’t need most if not half of those things but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t fill the void of want because those little things are bringing you joy just for this one second as you unload the over abundance of bags into the trunk of your car.
You only went for one thing you tell yourself. You shame yourself.
Never to go back but yet you return over and over again.
Love is intense.
Love is real.
Love is sometimes infinite and sometimes not. Love can be spoiled milk.