love is not fear.

it is not returning from school at 8 years old and being terrified to turn the brass knob, knowing there’s disaster waiting inside. disaster that chews your inherently good well-being and twists it into something cowardly.

it is not the constant worry of checking the lock on your bedroom door because you have not slept in two days and you are tired of drunken lectures in the middle of the night.

it is not giving up life, experiences, any chances to keep normal relationship with friends.

love is not inviting people over because you know that once they turn that brass handle, too, you cannot hide the horrors.

love is not wishing you were dead, hanging from the ceiling at 11 years old because you were branded as worthless, and a mistake, and that you should not have been born at all.

it is not taking the blame of the carelessness of others.

love is not resentment.

it is not writing in pain, eyes squeezed shut from the explosive sobs you hide into the pillow to shield your sound, because he will hear you and you cannot be weak.

it is not keeping a constant guard for the rest of your life; always damaged and carrying baggage wherever you go.

love is not the smell of abuse.

it is not missing opportunities for love, because you were told that you should not ever deserve it.

it is not watching films and growing attached to fatherly figures instead of the one beneath your own roof.

it is not broken bottles.

love is not choosing.

it is not throwing a quarter up in the air; heads for you, tails for alcohol.

love is not the latter.

it is not searching in the crowd for support at your award ceremony only to come up empty.

it is not wishing you were dead at 17 even though you’re now under a different roof, away from brass knobs and cracked glass.

love is not fear.

love is not hurt.

love is not damage.

love should be good, and I’ve never known.

 

I am fear, not love. I smell like abuse and hurt from whip lashes.