Bittersweet

• another one about this week

Nothing makes sense in the act of cutting your heart from your chest and holding it in between your trembling hands. Love is not supposed to make sense.

I don't know how to love without both arms open and no kneepads. Love is like riding a bike and I keep scrapping my skin every time I fall, bleeding out every god damn reason why I would give him a second chance.

Or a third.

I would give him a million chances and still look confused when my mother says I love too much. Too deeply.

But love is a sea of feelings and I can not swim in shallows waters.

There's a lot of fish in the sea, my mother says.

How lucky I am to be in love with Megalodon, then. 

Love sleeps somewhere in the lines that separate beauty from danger and Cupid likes to use me as if I'm a character from a horror story and still,

loving him was the best thing I ever had the privilege to do.