My love is an affliction. It's not meant to be fixed, it's not worthy of protection, and it can never be conquered. It is sick. I am a poison that even the coldest of hearts can't survive. Or at least that's what I grew up believing. Left to my own devices from a young age, I grew up with zero love or guidance. I was an unwanted mistake my parents were forced to endure. Loneliness followed me everywhere. It's how I know real love doesn't exist, and those who believe they have it are disillusioned by sacrifice as if that alone made their bond worthy. Some would say I'm a romantic masochist, but maybe I had to be because only an unbelieving heart could step into its own twisted fairytale through impulse and temptation. When I flew across the country and showed up on my boyfriend's doorstep determined to cut ties with the diseased roots that continued to feed my sick heart, it was for him. For us. I didn't expect him to throw open the doors and allow his brother and rival to blur the lines between love and hate, stealing a piece of my heart for their own. My strength. My tormentor. My love. However, not everything is what it seems, and people with beginnings like ours don't get happily ever afters. The scars of our hearts defined our love. It was not welcomed. It was not painless. It was fought for with blood, sweat, and tears and tasted like sweet venom. Intended for mature listeners.
