I have been told that normal people feel, but they feel lightly.
Confessions of love are weaved into poorly concealed pop songs, sadness is hidden in the bottom of an empty glass, honesty is left to hazy confessions at 3am in the arms of a faceless stranger.
Shame is the chill in your chest as you hastily retain scattered clothing from the polished wooden floor of a man you don't remember; jealousy twists at the darkness in your heart that you long thought had ceased to exist.
This is normal.
But what is normal to you is not normal to me.
Love is the warmth, the desire, the excitement; unlocked when you listen to the undecipherable language of your heart. It is uncontrollable, beautiful, terrible; like a drug that depraves and lulls you with false promises that's sweet bitterness on your tongue you crave nonetheless. My confessions aren't screams into the endless void of a cycle we will never break, but whispers from the lips of a million centuries as they dance in the wind.
Sadness consumes me: the tears, the pain, the shadows. The feeling of your hand clamping onto the dull sheets as your cries fill the darkness of your room. The way you curl into yourself, as if placing your legs before your chest will dull the ache, will protect you from the monster who's claws have already wounded you.
I am incapable of feeling lightly. I feel in extremes.
My emotions are storms wreaking havoc to leave behind a twisted reminiscence of destruction and morphed beauty.
When you leave me, my pain will roar with the wind. Your smile, your heart, your thoughts; their roots will be ripped from my mind even as in their absence I am left with scars as permanent as night and day.
However, my eyes will remain dry. My tears will never come.
If you break my heart, I will not weep. My love is too precious to merely disappear in a flood of tears.
If you break my heart, I will shatter until there is nothing left but the jaded pieces of a girl you left behind.
