THE FLOWER THAT DIED

What even is love?

Is it just the butterfly feeling and the obsessive thinking about a person?

Or is it the pain and the sacrifice that one has to make and endure?

What is this love?

In my life, there was no place for love, there is still no place for love, and there will never be any place for love. Because it is a poison; it is a beast that cannot be defeated. When each of its strikes lands a powerful blow, it leaves people restless, it destroys them from within, and eventually kills them. And when it kills, it does it slowly. I have seen it myself, from my parent's marriage, and even from my own strained marriage, that love does not exist. It is just an illusion. A sweet, dark, one at that. But we still believe in it because we need hope, or else we cannot survive. And again for the second time, I drank that poison, drank myself into it, into him, and let myself sink.