Love is such a fickle thing.

It burns, it soothes, it hurts and relieves all in one.

Or, at least it should.

"Because I love you, you should be mine. In heart, body, and soul."

Did you ever care to think if i loved you back?

I did, of course. Love was the feeling in my chest that hurt so bad.

That burned, silently but deadly.

Wasn't it?

Love was sacrifice, was putting up with the worst, was feeling lonely while they surround you.

Wasn't it?

No. It wasn't.

But you never cared to tell me that.

You never cared to tell me that while I had fire in my chest

you held nothing but ice.

Love is not burning yourself up to keep others warm. It is not constant sacrifice,

but rather compromise.

Love is a balm, light in your eyes and a lightness in your soul.

Love was not you.

And I have learned.

Love is her.

Love is wishing to protect, to shield and comfort.

It is being genuinely happy, it is sharing your darkest fears, not to scorn but to understanding.

I finally understand what it means to love.

"Because I love you, you should be mine. Heart, body, and soul."


You don't own me. Not anymore.

Love is not a burn. It is a balm.

It is her.

I have learned.


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