I thought I was done with love with the rush, the excitement, the ache, the weight of it all. I told myself I had learned my lesson, that love was nothing but a carefully masked storm, waiting to unravel everything I built to protect myself. But no matter how many times I walk away, I find myself falling, slipping, drowning again and again.
Each time I let love come closer, I brace myself for the impact, knowing that pain is always a step behind. I thought the scars would serve as a warning, that they would remind me of all the times love shattered me. But somehow, the pain doesn't keep love away; it only makes it harder to understand, harder to survive.
I want love to find me in my despair, to wrap around me on the loneliest nights, to breathe warmth into the coldest parts of me. But love doesn't come as a savior; it comes as an echo in the days, whispering the ghosts of what once was, dragging along every heartbreak that came before.
So tell me, do I bottle it up, bury it deep beneath my skin, pretend it was never real? Or do I let go, knowing that love will return only to leave again, taking pieces of me every time it goes?