SHE had been in relationships before; too many to count on her fingers (this was not including all the people she had slept with, which was exponentially bigger). Sometimes women, mostly men, yet they all ended the same: her heart, bleeding and shattered amongst the shards of broken bottles. She never could remember whether it was because she was alone again or because she thought she was in love.
Maybe it was less about love than she thought. Maybe it was that desire for arms around her, holding her so close that her heart would beat to the same tune as theirs. It was the whispers in her head at night, telling her that she couldn't sleep, not without someone beside her. All she wanted was that security; to know that she would never have to worry about being alone ever again.
So fall in love she did. Over and over again, till her heart burst from the thought of it. And she was good at it, too. She was the ideal girlfriend, waiting on her partner on hands and knees, bent as if in worship. She was always the follower, the disciple: the Girl Who Cared More. It was the giving away part that she was so adept at, and soon she became so good at it that there was hardly any of her left by the end of it.
She should've known that this was no way to love. If only she hadn't seen her own mother whittle away into nothing for her husband's approval. Why didn't someone ever sit her down gently and tell her that, no, a relationship is never one-sided? There is an equal exchange, equal care and thought. You are worth more than prayer hands and bowed heads.
By the time she realized this, it was too late. There was no room in her heart for love. Or anything at all.
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A/N: a cautionary tale.
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In Bloom
Poetry"FRAGILE, delicate, broken- words that I hope you never become." A letter from a mother to her future daughter. [#71 in Poetry 1.9.16]
