They say falling in love is beautiful, messy but beautiful. I can't say I agree. Hell, I can't say I even want to feel it every again. What is love? I guess everyone has a different definition of what it is, what it sounds like, what it tastes like. To me, love is a disease.
Love sounds like shattering plates that were haphazardly thrown toward the face of your lover, screaming into a pillow until you feel like your vocal cords were ready to be cut out of your throat. It's the sound of doors being slammed, feet stomping on the dangerously fragile wooden stairs to our apartment, police sirens in the distance coming for us.
Love tastes like vodka, and stale menthol cigarettes that I put out on our end table. It tastes like venom being poured down my throat that you have clutched tightly in your hand. Love tastes like gasoline while you have a match in hand, threatening to light the whole fucking house on fire.
Love is nothing. Nothing but a reminder of everything I try to avoid.
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General FictionHannah Glass is the biggest mess she's ever been six months after a break up from her on and off boyfriend Bryce. He has damaged her in ways she can't forget. Therapy isn't working but the alcohol is.
