You smelled an awful lot like a familiar feeling of dread disguised as good intentions the minute you got too close. Looking at you made me wonder about the way you spoke, your manner of standing with your feet apart, looking like a little boy taking in his surroundings. Gut feelings were a thing of mine, and my gut told me you were loud, impulsive, and, for all intents and purposes, a child.
The truth is, I’d never have fallen in love with you if you didn’t make me.
It sounds offensive when said as such, and believe me, it is. It’s offensive to you, and it’s offensive to me. I used to wonder over and over what it was that drew me to you so that I could batter myself with the thought that I did this.
I put myself here.
I tortured myself by colliding my life with yours. But truthfully, it was you who came closer. It was you who closed the distance between us. You with your big movements, your wild plans and odd sense of (im)maturity, and me with my change-repelling nature, my anxiety that mixed so terribly with my stunningly morbid curiosity. Flame, meet moth. Ironic.
The laws of nature had it etched in stone: you’d be the death of me. Yet you didn’t care to see, nor did you care to stop once you did see. Again, like a child, you pulled in the shiny new toy, had high hopes for it, tried to love it to near combustion before realizing that it was stagnant and you were a roaring current. Can’t stop, won’t stop.
Change is your fuel and I was burning up, getting charred in your light.
And the stupidity of it all was that I did love you. I knew you would destroy me, but I adored you all the same. I was a victim of the soft brown eyes. The little boy candor. The sheepish grins and feather-light kisses that you trailed freely across my skin. Your promises, your overwhelming sense of passion that screamed meaninglessly, “I will love you. I will love you right and true, and I will never ever hurt you.”
There was so much more to us. There IS so much more to us.
There’s a chasm of all the best, worst, risqué and damning things that have yet to be touched by the light of day. There were lies — little ones, big ones, ones that didn’t seem like they mattered but they were lies all the same. A child! they told me. You’re in love with the most mischievous, impulsive child! And you loved to prove them right. You loved to spin me around, make me believe in things I’ve always dreamed of but never once took a chance on.
You loved to leave, but then come back.
It was never enough for you, the life I had to offer. You always wanted more from me. More, and more and more, but you did it in such a way that convinced me that you were the man who never wanted anything. Until what you wanted was to leave for good. You’ve left your mark. You’ve made your point. You drew the line which you yourself crossed back and forth, over and over again, for reassurance that you had power on either side. But I promised that I’d forgive you.
I promised that I’d make things right with you.
And unlike you, I keep my promises.