i’ll be very honest, being loved by someone like me isn’t soft or beautiful or poetic the way people romanticize it. it’s dark. it’s obsessive. it’s a kind of hunger that doesn’t stop once it starts. and the worst part? when you live far from the person you love, the love doesn’t dissolve— it ferments. it festers. the poems stop sounding like love letters and start feeling like screams no one hears. it’s not yearning anymore, it’s erosion. a slow-burning cannibalism of your own self.
because what’s the point of loving someone you can’t touch? can’t reach? can’t whisper things to at 2 am when the world is too quiet and your brain won’t shut up? it just stays trapped. inside you. turns sour. turns sharp. turns cruel. and then it spreads. into your fists. into your teeth. into the corners of your smile. and you carry it around like a curse no one else can see.
it’s fucking miserable being loved by someone like me. because i don’t just love. i collapse. quietly. completely. endlessly.
