Last December, I decided that either true love existed
somewhere out of my reach, or it didn't exist at all.
In the mirror, my reddened eyes leered back at me,
piercing and livid, searching for the problem or the answer.
Ten minutes later, I was cured by cold pizza
and a hot shower, which made me wonder
if emotions were even real, or if I was always
just some version of hungry or tired.
Some sadistic part of me considered it a victory
to have had my heart broken, because at least that meant
I could feel something. It sounds crazy, but that's love,
and that's losing. It'll make you mad,
and it'll make you angry, too.
Time has a funny way of making a fool of me.
I couldn't tell you if there's a meaning to everything,
or if we're all just trying to make sense of what hurts us,
but I like to say I learned a lot in the six months
of never again:
que será, será, and c'est la vie; the future will surprise you
no matter how much you overthink; true love probably exists,
you just need a nap; and sometimes,
you don't realize what you almost had
until you're glad you didn't get it.