of all the things a person can do to another person's pain, I know that none is worse than romanticizing it. sometimes I fear I love her like one loves a baby bird with a broken wing, and I utterly hate myself for it. there is nothing beautiful about the darkness that swallows her whole. I think it might actually be the only thing about her that isn't at least a little bit beautiful.
I have no idea why this ugly, twisted poison has burrowed itself into her soul, but it certainly isn't so that I have something to save her from. so as tonight beats on and all the roads blend together and the radio hovers between static and song, I'll keep that with me. an order or a reminder, I don't quite really know, but I won't let it fade away from the front of my mind. all night it will loop there, over and over: love her not for her brokenness but in spite of it.
