The oxford dictionary defines love as a ‘strong feeling of affection.’
How can 4 words, describe a feeling so vehement, that it wrattles me on the inside and makes me a different person?
How can four words describe something so cogent, that it makes me want to kill myself, and live, all at the same time?
How can four words describe something so fervent, that it converts my emotions into waterfalls, that flow down my cheeks, while my mind reeks of underachievement?
Love cannot be defined. It’s subjective. Its passive. Its aggressive. Both at the same time. That's the beauty of it. 11 days have passed, and there hasn't been a single one, when I haven't wept.
He kills me, and I like it. He takes out a drop of blood out of my body every day, and I don't mind.
All I do is only wait in false hope, that one day, he’ll give me his.
I see my tummy, and I see a place where I want his baby to be.
I see his face, and I know it’s the one I want to wake up against.
I see his arms, delicate, and I know they’re the ones I want to hold.
I see his eyes. I see he doesn't care. But behind the screen that he calls his retina, I think I see his true self. A self, that would want to want me, later maybe.
And with this hope, I carry on, shedding tears and blood, and maybe some day, it will all come back to me.
The tears will be my struggle, and the blood will be my sacrifice. And they will have more value than everything else out together, because they will get me him, and he will get me happiness, and I will get his blitheness, and merriment.
My tears will count. My blood will have value.
He is my favourite story book, and I will read him till the end.
How can 4 words, describe a feeling so vehement, that it wrattles me on the inside and makes me a different person?
How can four words describe something so cogent, that it makes me want to kill myself, and live, all at the same time?
How can four words describe something so fervent, that it converts my emotions into waterfalls, that flow down my cheeks, while my mind reeks of underachievement?
Love cannot be defined. It’s subjective. Its passive. Its aggressive. Both at the same time. That's the beauty of it. 11 days have passed, and there hasn't been a single one, when I haven't wept.
He kills me, and I like it. He takes out a drop of blood out of my body every day, and I don't mind.
All I do is only wait in false hope, that one day, he’ll give me his.
I see my tummy, and I see a place where I want his baby to be.
I see his face, and I know it’s the one I want to wake up against.
I see his arms, delicate, and I know they’re the ones I want to hold.
I see his eyes. I see he doesn't care. But behind the screen that he calls his retina, I think I see his true self. A self, that would want to want me, later maybe.
And with this hope, I carry on, shedding tears and blood, and maybe some day, it will all come back to me.
The tears will be my struggle, and the blood will be my sacrifice. And they will have more value than everything else out together, because they will get me him, and he will get me happiness, and I will get his blitheness, and merriment.
My tears will count. My blood will have value.
He is my favourite story book, and I will read him till the end.
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