real love isn't pretty.
temporary love is romantic
you remember their smell, their hands,
that look in their eyes,
those words they said that
seemed so poetic at 4 in the morning.
drinking too much,
flirting all night,
jumping into rivers,
losing clothes...
the anticipation.
the act.
you have great stories in the morning
and inevitably it ends
they're leaving, or you're leaving,
you always knew it was a fling --
and you're left with the memories of a brilliant flame
that flared in a burst of light you'll never forget.

real love isn't like that.
of course i remember everything.
your strong arms, the way
you held me every night like the world was ending.
the way you picked me up,
or forced me down,
i'd never been with someone like you,
someone who could actually hurt me with your power.
but you never hurt me, not physically.
i wanted it all.
you pinned me to beds, floors, kitchen counters,
i did anything for you because i loved you
i wanted you
i always wanted you.
but in the real world, we were two losers
you were a baby
i was your protector.
i accepted every part of you
but maybe it was too much, cause
did i also stunt your growth?

real love isn't pretty.
it's filled with fighting and
bringing each other down to a point
i didn't even realize existed.
it's seeing you at your absolute worst,
when you can't take control of your own life and
drag me down with you.
it's getting fat and wearing sweats every day and
asking me to love your belly.
which i did.
it's asking me to pop your pimples.
it's getting my face covered in my own spit
when i go down on you, hard,
the only way you can come.
it's feeling belittled when i can't make you come.
it's you making me come when i don't want to anymore.
it's doing things you don't want to do,
becoming someone you're not, someone you're not inspired by anymore.

i did it all for you, baby,
i threw myself away,
and in the end, for what?
it didn't last.
real love isn't pretty,
i don't even remember enough good about it to
turn it into a golden story.
maybe we were never golden.
what do you call a love story that ends
with no satisfaction for anyone?
i guess it's a horror story
because it's still worth remembering
if only to remind myself where i should never go again.

real love isn't pretty,
it's terrible,
and you're stripped down to your raw bones asking
to be accepted.
it's piling your **** on someone else and
having them pile your **** on you,
and struggling viciously to
get through it all, to make it to the top.
it's knowing the worst things you can know about someone.
it's protecting someone, and pretending that
they're so much better than they are.

i always believed in love.
but real love isn't pretty