On Falling in Love with Love
What happens when love dies?
It was not you I loved. It was the thought of love that I loved. I know you will not understand. Or maybe you will. I am not sure. There are parts of me you do understand. Like why I keep blabbering in crowds. Why I choose to pursue what I pursue. But you know these things because I told you. Because I opened up and let you see these parts of me. See, I don't know how to say this. But the things you see in me, are the things I let you see. And I guess that's what you fell for. But there are so many chapters that you never uncovered. You never thought my love for poetry was worth the attention. Never did it cross your mind as a possible topic of discussion. You see me as pure. But that is not me. You made up this image in your head and made me fit into it. You gave me a list of reasons why you loved me and on top of the list was "pretty". Disappointment doesn't even start to cover what I felt. I have always considered myself much more than just a pretty face. For starters, I don't even think I am pretty. Maybe if you would have said beautiful, we would have lasted longer. Beauty is deeper and more enchanting than "pretty". Or maybe I think too much. You never saw me as strong or bold or a lover of books or an over-thinker. You were scared to unveil my deep dark and sinful desires. You were repelled by the pointless hatred I had for certain things. You kept off my fears and the things that scared me in the night. You had no desire to explore these parts of me. You loved rainbows and ponies. And that is just a single line in my book. So, what happens when I bump into someone who wants to read the whole book, analyze every chapter, and work delicately through every single line? What happens then?
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