why is it so hard for us to pry ourselves from the ones we love?
shes home. shes home. she is home. she is my home.
like a script i feel these words are only necessary after three years, but are they true?
does home lie? does home cheat? is home unfaithful and unfair? no.
like an illusion i was tricked into thinking this person was home for me.

maybe now i’ll create a home for myself where i set standards for myself.
why is this lesson so hard for me? why can i not grasp the fact that i cannot change a broken person nor is it my job to.
home doesn’t make your eyes shoot wide open at 3am gasping for air. home doesn’t make you second guess if it loves you. home doesn’t leave holes in your heart only to be filled with doubt. home shouldn’t be this way. home isn’t this way.
i will re-adjust my path for myself.

glide your fingertips along all my characteristics and facets and tell me how they ‘feel like yours’. tell me i’m not like everyone else and how we share something ‘unique’. tell me what you think i want to hear so for a moment i wont lose all hope in authenticity, right? doesn’t that make it all even more fake?

i dont want hear what you think i want to hear.

I’ve met love three times.

The first time I met love, she had short, chocolate hair and bright blue eyes. She loved the thrill of four wheelers and the warmth of helping people. I remember the first time we met. Love wanted to sit next to me at the first football game. Love was eager for my attention. Love brought out the best in everyone she spoke to. Love sent electricity through my body for the first time. One night at her lake house, love set out candles and said she was falling in love with me. Love never wanted me to leave her. After one vicious year, love and I couldn’t be together anymore because of the insufferable pressure my family put on us.

Half a year later, I met love again. Only this time, she had dark eyes and a lip ring. On the outside, love was the life of the party as sweet laugher bursted out of her small body. On the inside, love was deeply pained and hollow. Love hurt herself frequently. Love got high off of anything she could find. Love’s father was an alcoholic. Love’s brother overdosed and love was high at his funeral. Love locked eyes with me across the room of a crowded party and sent chills down my spine. I wanted to fill and fix all of love’s voids, but I couldn’t. I didn’t even come close. Love slept with other people and didn’t fight me when I left. Love meant well, but I never really figured her out.

Three years ago, Love came into my life again. Love is the kind of freckle-faced brunette that people described as charming, sneaky and fun. Love has great dimples that show when she flashes her winner smile. However, love has a mask that she wears. Love has a drug addict mother and doesn’t know what an apology is. Love is very hard to write about. After love had successfully seduced me into her tight grips, she crushed my heart. Love introduced me to the darkest, most lonely, insecure and sad part of myself. Love was constantly disappointing, but also my best friend. She once was a safe home, but now, is a loud and obnoxious stranger at our local college bar.

It would seem that every time you relapse, it would become easier to handle, easier to grasp.
However, it becomes harder each time. My feelings harden, an awkward gap wedges itself between you an I. It steals hope from me of you.
It sits on your shoulder like the devil. He points and laughs at me..He shouts out, "Why do you even bother?"
"She makes her own choices, and she choses me, not you". 
And this is what happens every time. 
And so it goes.

that sweet, alluring aftershock wraps herself around your ankles, twisting and turning, makes her way up your body, only pausing momentarily at your hips, she then begins to move against your neck. you close your eyes and tilt your head back. the familiarity seduces you. she makes her way up around your jawline, she whispers sweet things into your ears threatening you. you struggle for breath as the air is thick and heavy. your skins turns pale. your hands start to sweat. you collapse at your knees.

gasping for breath your eyes shoot wide open, inhale as you start running as fast as you can. doors flung wide, you burst into a small room of the people your heart is closet to. you feel a warm glow. finally it makes sense.
you don’t quite know toxicity until you breathe your first breath of fresh air.

she’ll pull you in: maybe with smirk, a touch on the arm, or maybe she’ll bat her dark lashes under her green sparkling eyes.

once she’s trapped you, you’ll know. she’ll have this strange, surreal power over you that’ll leave your heart pumping harder as she enters the room, a deep pit in your stomach when she’s not around, and your legs will shake as she slowly makes her way down your body. Her thick Believe by Brittany Spears perfume will suffocate and intoxicate you.

however, one day after she’s been yours for years, you’ll wake up in her dark room and realize that it’s already three in the afternoon. you’ll look over and see that she’s still asleep. the sight of her makes you sick. she looks nothing like she did two years ago. the only difference is that now you know who she truly is.  you’ve realized this is the meanest, most dishonest narcissistic person you’ve ever loved.

she's got dark circles under her eyes, eluding to the lack of sleep she got since you two were fighting until 4am that morning. her hair is thick and knotted. her dry, sharp lips are slightly curved-up, almost manipulative. she smells of sickening-sweet ***** from the night before. you'll be absolutely disgusted by the sight of her.

maybe it will be the infidelity, maybe it’ll be the lies. either way, you’ve leave. the day you leave will be the day that your heart breaks. it’ll be the hardest thing that you’ve ever done.

who knew
the small girl along the way
who had creamy brown eyes
who wore a strawberry print dress
who pushed her mother's luck
would one day grow up
and become bored by the sight of her own blood