Love is a strange feeling.

Some people seem to think love is one thing, while others seem to think it's another.

Honestly, it can be interpreted in so many different ways and seen from so many different perspectives.

It's kind of crazy and chaotic

and although no one truly knows what it is, the ending fact is love exists.

But,

what if it doesn't?

What if love is just a delusion created by our subconcious in search for something higher?

What if love was created by those who didn't think a single god was enough?

What if love was not love, but a rendition of distinctive hate?

 

Momma always told me daddy was only lovin' us a little too much

and that always confused me because at school,

love was hugs and smiles.

Love was sharing my last cookie and not caring if I got cooties.

It was saving a silly picture a friend drew so I could hang it up on my wall

and always leaving a space next to me in case someone ever needed a friend.

But I guess that was not love

because love wasn't always the same.

At home,

love was different.

Love was shattered glass and cracked ribs.

Love was bruised knuckles and bloody lips.

It was watching momma cry as she made me mac and cheese

and wiping off her tears as she tucked me in at night.

Love was different

and I didn't understand why.

I thought love was sharing my favorite toys.

I thought love was holding hands on the way to recess,

wearing matching socks and having sleepovers.

I thought that was love.

Then again, I also thought love cost $10.49 just like the local brewed beer did

because daddy only loved momma and I a little too much after drinking from those tiny glass bottles

I always see at the back of the fridge.

I thought love was the rainbow of bruises painted on momma's cheeks.

I thought love was hiding in the kitchen cabinet 

and hoping daddy's love-filled eyes and love-stained breath never found me.

I thought love was the smile daddy had on his face after mapping my skin with his hands,

writing apologies he would later read to me as bedtime stories.

Bedtime stories turned nightmares and nightmares turned reality.

"Because I love you, this will be our little secret."

The cycle repeating.

Repeating.

Repeating.

Repeating.

 

Daddy?

Momma always told me you were only lovin' us a little too much.

So please,

Start drinking a little less love and a little more hate because I always loved you when you loved a little less.