You don’t know what love is. You don’t know what it is to have your heart held in the hand of someone else, and trust them to protect it with every remaining battle-scarred and love-weary fiber of your soul. You have no idea what exists beyond the realm of materialism, past the Prada bags and cashmere sweaters, past the Chanel nail polish and diamond earrings; a place where the feel of dewy grass on callused soles is worth an amount unquantifiable by any price tag. Take your nickel and copper heart, pumping melted gold into veins fashioned from rolled hundred dollar bills, your very essence addicted to the taunting, glamorous lure of luxury. Take your plastic encased existence and offer it to him in the backseat of your detailed Mercedes, manicured claws carving a path into his equally jaded being. On the outside, you are perfect. You are everything society has demanded of you. Conformed.
But inside, you lack. Your sighs and moans are a product of your dissatisfaction and insatiable crave for approval and sympathy, never associated with the tangled legs and racing breath that comes with impassioned love. Laws of attractions coincide with checking accounts, not with the incomparable twitter of love-crazed hormones running rampant in your chest. You do not know what it is like to have a man hold you, caress you, love you silently-take your breath and give it back in the same instant, to forgive for wrongdoings and accept their flaws, because to you they are perfections. Love is not gaudy and it is not flashy, it does not strive for the attention and approval of others, it only basks in its own euphoric existence, dictated from within. Take it from me, you are not in love.
And you are not as important as you desperately need yourself to be.