He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

Fineas Anton
Fineas Anton

I handed you an open heart; you handed me a bouquet of thorn-covered roses.

In your presence, my world always seems a little more beautiful, the light at the end of the tunnel a little more bright, my step a little more buoyantly carefree. I gaze at you through heart-shaped glasses, blinded by the blue light of the TV blasting a Hollywood crafted romance where everything is happily ever after. I willingly allowed myself to believe my happily ever after existed with you.

He loves me.

A knock on the door. I know it is you. I tell myself to build up the walls around my fragile heart so you could not storm in again. But every time I was a fool to the Trojan horse knocking on my door. A storm is brewing, a war is coming.

He loves me not.

I lay my head on your chest and sync your breath with mine. The feeling of a peaceful moment unsettles me. I am terrified of the moment when the numbness one day melts into a shadow; when I fall victim to the seemingly eternal wound we call heartbreak. But I still succumb to you as we learn each other’s bodies, memorizing each curve like it was our own hand-crafted masterpiece.

He loves me.

The protective glass around my heart cracks a little each time the side of the bed in which you laid feels lighter. I always knew as soon as the sun stretched above the horizon you would leave. I wonder when the cracks on my heart will become too much and one day shatter.

He loves me not. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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