Love Is…

Michel Foucault

“It works like this: He takes your hand and swears he loves you. And sometimes the words don’t even leave his mouth but you think you know. And he cracks open your ribs, all the while muffling your protests. He promises it won’t hurt and you believe him even though something screams at you to run. And with his hands around your throat you swear this can’t be right. But he caresses your hair and suddenly you could listen to his lies forever. It works like this: He makes you laugh and he makes you cry and somewhere along the way you stop knowing which is which. He pushes you against the wall and you mistake it for passion, and you apologize for overreacting when his nails leave marks on your skin. But one day you don’t recognize your reflection anymore and you find the life has been drained right out. You realize he shouldn’t be trying to subdue the glow in your eyes and the fire in your heart. And the day you leave, your ribs will finally begin to heal. His hand prints will slowly disappear until you swear they were never there at all. In two years you won’t remember the sound of his footsteps but right now they’re all you hear. But soon you will stop seeing him in everything. And if you smile a little and laugh a lot, you might just find, that one day, he’ll disappear altogether.”