Love is a blade thrusts slowly through muscle and bone, piercing the heart
The foreigness of the metal draws a gasp. It slowly heats to the temperature around it, slowly pulses out pain that tells us, this is love. They say that love doesn’t hurt, that it makes you feel wonderful, that it elevates you but nothing so wonderous is without a cost. Pain is intrinsic to the human condition. It’s just that some pains drive us to be more, be better people and some drive us to ruin.
No, love is a blade thrust into the heart. If we’re lucky, it stays there and if not, then it is pulled out. Sometimes, another pulls it out and sometimes we look down and find our own hands slick with blood.
But we collapse, because that blade was holding back the maelstrom and out pours every good moment, every word of beauty, everything right and spills it on the ground, drunk greedily by the parched earth.
We hold the darkness with us, we grasp what we can as the blade wrecks us, it’s always easiest to hold onto the dark.
But eventually it all goes, and we’re just shallow husks. Cicada molt, waiting to be crushed or blown away.