You don’t love him.
But you like to think that you do, because when you do you don’t feel so hollow anymore; the makeshift image you have created in your mind has swallowed the dark clouds of your mind, his eyes and smile the stars lurking beneath, and with every passing thought the sky turns into him. Your world becomes fragments of what he is, what he used to be and what he will become; you don’t love him, but you make a world out of him.
You imagine what it feels like, being in love, and summer dances in your veins, washing every little, frozen doubt away under its sun kissed arms and heavenly touch. Love is supposed to be good, he makes you feel good; isn’t that love then? But if love is good and it heals, how come you can’t stop the rapture of your arteries, or the shredding of your heart’s chambers; if this is love, why did you make him to be a world you could step on? Cobblestones beneath your feet, and you trip with every step. Sore knees, crimson puddles, but you keep walking as you keep telling yourself; he is my world.
The trees are his arms, grass his hair and mountains the deprivation he has risen within you. Tall and sturdy they reign, their tops coated in newly fallen snow as they grow higher, higher and further; you can’t climb those, because you never managed to conquer him. What world do you live in, where the mountains shape a valley so deep you can’t escape? Love, you call it, and love you make it. The crimson on your knees is not blood, it’s love pouring over. Your dedication and admiration seeping through the cracks of your skin; you can’t contain it!
You don’t love him, but you drink his love like water, sip it like it’s some sort of antidote meant to cure the obscure and crippling insecurity you’ve brewed within your chest; you don’t love him, but you know that you’d like to try, if not because you want to but because you have to.
Even if his love is a poison, you’d happily die trying.
your name is a river, body a temple and heart a hell . // b.b. (via benjaminbentley)