I Often Think Falling In Love Is Like Being Stabbed, For More Than One Reason. See, It Is Forced Upon

“I often think falling in love is like being stabbed, for more than one reason. See, it is forced upon us without much choice. Plunged into the depths of our soul and we call the pain a blessing because at least something has reached us. Has touched us. At least we feel something. I often think falling in love is like being stabbed, for more than one reason. It is fast and violent, too quick for you to realize what is happening until you stagger back and realize what is really going on. You stare at the hilt jutting out of you, mesmerized, terrified. Because it hurts when it happens, but we are more scared of the pain that will come with the extraction of this thing killing us. We call the removal Heartbreak when really our heart was fractured as soon as we were hit, yet we only start to feel it when the blade that was keeping us together, filling the wound is taken back. And we choose the torture that is love every time Because we know we can either live with this ache or bleed out alone.”

— The Universe’s Sense of Humor

And are you not the most palatable anguish I have ever allowed myself to feast upon?

~Saturday Afternoon Reflections~

A Throw back to this post to celebrate over 4,000 followers, thank you loves for giving me so much, love, support and a platform to share my writing, thoughts, rants and little peices of my soul :')

When you follow over a thousand blogs but have less than 35 followers 😢😹😅

girl sets herself aflame and watches herself burn down in the mirror. 

girl drinks coffee until her hands shake. girl drinks herself sick and swallows a match. girl unhinges her jaw, eats every bit of poison beneath the earth. girl makes cocktails for herself at 3pm. girl drinks nyquil and ambien to sleep. girl drinks blood from her wrist and spits it out.

I read somewhere once that the heart exists in the ribcage because it is a wild beast of a thing. But I think the writer did forget the existence of the lungs here too. And i do beileve that the rib cage exists to maintain our mortality.

Because I am sure, if it did not limit the expansion of my lungs, I may be tempted to inhale so much of you that I am pulled off my feet. That I am pulled into the fading colors of the day's sky, destined to float here for an eternity. My mortality drifting away on the wind and washed away with the rain. Never needing to inhale again. Never needing to breathe you out. Your presence within me as sustenance

And yet the ribcage does exist to maintain our mortality. And so i hold you close. Inhale the scent of you. Over and over. Praying the shape of you may yet imprint on the inside of my lungs. Kiss you as though you were air and I may yet find a way to keep the essence of you bottled within me for the days I am breathless.

I think I understand why they are called eyelashes now. As her lid comes down, And with it the whip. As I am beaten down with every bat of her eye. As every eyelash flutter bestows an open wound on the already scarred surface of my will and my want. Until I am bleeding out On my knees Before her. Begging for mercy. Begging for more. As she turns me into a masochist.

Lash

(Verb)

1. Strike (someone) with a whip or stick

(Noun)

2. An eyelash