Love..
In a world filled with people in all different fonts, love is the most beautiful feeling. No matter your inner or outer form, your height or your size, whether you seek a simple life or an ambitious one—there will always be someone whose heart holds a place for you.
Love exists in many forms and feelings: a friend’s comforting embrace, a mother’s warm smile, a partner’s kiss. Everyone feels love in one of these ways. But romantic love is my downfall. I fall too quickly, and the feeling fades just as fast. It is genuine love—I know that. I can feel its warmth radiating through my body. But all it takes is a single misstep for that warmth to be swallowed by a dark chill.
I’m not blind to the fact that relationships and love are a fragile fruit—easily turned to a messy pulp if not handled with gentle hands. Yet even with that awareness, I still end up hurting those who hold me dear. Never by intention—but inevitably—I become their sorrow.
Relationships are an exchange of blood and bruises, healed only in each other’s arms. But I’m no longer willing to endure the pain of these new wounds. I am too covered in scars from those who came and went. I have been sought after, lusted for, used, and beaten. I am afraid—afraid I will never feel true love. Afraid I’ll be hurt again. Afraid my heart will once more be shattered. And if I am not the one broken—will I be the one who breaks them? That is nothing I could ever take joy in.
The love I long for is not the lust of today. I want to feel someone’s hands on my soul, not my body. To live in someone’s heart, not their bed. Still, there is one thought I hold close—a name carved into my heart forever. Never have I felt his eyes strip me bare. Never have I needed his forgiveness to be myself. If he were the ocean, I’d be a wave. If he were the wind, I’d be sea and shore.
How to describe the love I seek, or the love I find in him—there are no words. Only a faint beating in my heart. Even in the safe place that is his smile, fear seeks me out. If the day comes when I finally hold his heart, and my rough hands cause him sorrow, I will never forgive myself. How am I to ask him for trust when I cannot trust myself?
This fear slowly coils around my throat—like a thorned vine, digging into my skin until I can no longer breathe. A single phrase keeps spinning in my mind over and over again, and I am beside myself with terror at its meaning:
The abused becomes the abuser.
Critisism is always welcome
