If we don’t get hurt, we will never know that the assurance of getting loved back and getting hurt diverges to a world where things always fall into ruin. And where could we find “love” in those ruins? Nowhere.
A heart of scratches and bruises is an experienced heart. A heart that gives without looking back to seek being given, is a heart that learned what love really means.
But is it wrong to assert one’s importance? As people, that was deemed necessary for self-actualization: to be made special and loved.
What if the person you chose to love, despite the whole world telling you not to, always fails you?
I will never think about salvation. What can it do in a world where chaos are flowers and my mind a garden?
You are always a destruction: a whirlwind of thoughts I never thought would circle around my soul.
You have set me free. But who would’ve thought freedom hurts? The chains might’ve gone too fit for my soul that when you untangled these shackles, I began feeling the swelling engraving red and sore like dusk on my skin ready for another round of darkness.
I chose the dark, I fell in love with it, not at first, but eventually. I’ve seen many souls laughing in chorus about the mundane that steps the level up a little to catch their attention. I’ve thought about how wondrous it would be to partake in such splendor. But I belong where I belong, and it is not there.
Eventually, every “hi” would end with a “goodbye”. It would always be better to have a hole in your heart where you can gradually flush out the temporary.
When I love, I love with all my heart. It was never a good thing. And it sucks, that no one was able to love as I do.
I was a bell in love’s front door
That anyone who steps at the welcome mat leaves me hidden silver strings
They leave but the strings don’t