Please do not fall in love with me.
My love is a loaded gun, lips a trigger, spitting a beautiful vocabulary of bullets.

My love is a bomb. The impact is amplified 10 miles wide and 3 miles deep. The light is blinding, the sound deafening, the radiation illuminating you from the inside out, but it is an unseen illness.

When I shatter your heart, it will be a glimmering glass window busted by a brick, not because you were not a lovely window to look through, but because I am a lost refugee, bitter and broken.

I don't like to hurt people, nor do I want to, but there's only one thing that happens when you get too close to a land mine.

Don't get me wrong, love sounds intricate and amazing, but I am terrified of my own capabilities, and I would rather stop you sooner, when you are that eleventh mile away, just out of reach of my explosion, than have you be inches from the fuse as the seconds tick away.

And I wasn't always this way, I'd like to believe I'd known some kind of love,
But I can't seem to help but feel as though it was my fault.

So I live with this distance between anyone new, because of what I wish I'd admitted after the first;

I didn't dodge all of the blows,
I simply denied that he hit me.