Love is a lot of different things.
Love is happy. Love is sad.
Love is your worst nightmare, and your most favorite dream, and love isnât just chocolates and flowers and Valentineâs Day because that shit is torture for those of us who donât have someone to point to when the host of the party asks us who weâre going with.
Love is raw.
Love is vulnerable.
I donât have a lot of things or people to love. Iâve been in love just once, and ever since it ended, love has been building up inside of me. Itâs built up so much that sometimes I just want to curl up into a ball and cry or maybe scream at the top of my lungs about all of the people Iâve ever cared for and tears would rush down my cheeks and I would touch them, breathe them, feel them, and press my hands up against their cheeks.
Love is pain.
Love is the last thing on your list, the maybe, the thing youâre so embarrassed to hope for that you try to shut yourself up tight in black clothes and heels that squeeze your toes and pretend. You bite your tongue and you smile and you joke with your brain. Ha-ha, maybe.
All of us need it.
All of us want it.
We want it so desperately that weâre ashamed.
Love.
The love bottles up inside all of us and our brains are the corks that keep us from being senseless and letting all pour out and ruin us, but at the end of the day, who doesnât want to be ruined? Which one of us wants to be left alone and never fall and never break?
Nobody.
Love is the most painstakingly horrible, disgusting, ruthless and unrelenting monster, and we treat it like the loveliest dream.
We are an optimistic society. Or maybe a selfish one.
Love is everything that we canât have and everything thatâs already inside us.
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