Sometimes Love Is Meant To End

God & Man
God & Man

The feeling was too familiar.


She felt like she was watching a rerun of last season’s hottest television finale, featuring her own life. The plot was twisted, secretive, thick, sexy, lonely — yet abnormally satisfying. She knew what was bound to happen next, but her eyes remained fixed on the screen, pretending the main characters would survive.

An ache in her ribs begins and a cloudy haze of the past overwhelms her to the point of nausea. Red wine flows throughout her bloodstream, a melancholic buzz takes over, and the intense exhaustion of wanting to be in love, yet alone, vibrates throughout her being.

Shadowy figures emerge into her thoughts, blending into one habitual, sadistic, romantic pattern. They are all the same; mysterious, dark, artistic, forever pretending to please her, but incapable of providing what she craves.

She takes a deep breath as a sigh escapes her. She drifts away to thoughts of her latest romantic interest.

There was something about the way he carried himself. His smile could light up the darkest room. His energy was contagious. He had a perfect mouth. His lips moved effortlessly, like the ocean licking the sand. So sure of himself, but not the type of cockiness you run from; rather, the type of inner confidence that lures you in.

She was never the type of girl to seek out love. She fell in love before, but it was an accident, like hitting your hipbone on the corner of a desk. The pain spirals throughout your bones at the time, but you soon forget where the bruise came from.

She saw therapists on a regular basis as a child. She had an overactive imagination, constantly wondering, constantly worrying. She always compared her brain to a browser with a 100 tabs open at any given time. They said hormones. They said depression. They said the men in her family, specifically her father. They said alcoholism and addiction. They said PMS. They said heartbreak. Just another label and excuse to be miserable.

She came to find that misery was a learned skill. People thrive off of misery. For a long time, she thrived off her own.

Due to her early-life tribulations, she learned to be in complete control as an adult: wake up, open the blinds, turn on the music, forget feelings. She danced her way through life carelessly; always on to the next adventure or pursuit that caught her fancy. Never holding onto the past.

She was a writer, an artist, a music-fanatic. She always found herself lost in fiction, drawn to metaphors, analyzing lyrics, writing songs, and creating poetry. She confused everyone that got too close by her profound, well-versed manner that quickly turned into emotional withdrawal. Was she not doomed to the dark side from the start?

A fearless soul, she beckoned both the angel and devil on her shoulder. She was impatient, brushing off mishaps, blaming the stars and planet alignment of her birth chart when she couldn’t find better reasoning.

She’d rather be a blazing wildfire than a dimming candle; always igniting the fire within her soul that could never be put out.

If she wasn’t working on her latest creative project, she was in bed. A true dancing, social butterfly or an introverted recluse. There were no in-betweens. If she wasn’t taking a risk, indulging in her passions, or analyzing the trend of her latest fancy, she was aloof and uninterested.

She hid behind her four walls, each month bringing a sturdy layer of distance. She had come to know no other way to live—distant. Living, breathing in a world that she kept at arm’s length, able to enter or exit as she felt necessary.

But she was stuck in this daydream.

His eyes haunted her. His calm demeanor alarmed her. And this intrigued her.

His presence lingered in her thoughts: the lusty smell in the air of honest intentions, hungry eyes, the way his skin naturally melted into hers, the taste of his tongue, the comfort of his body heat submerging her body into his mattress.

She was haunted. It wasn’t his fault. She craved this type of attention. Her patterns repeat to the point of insanity.

Relationships are like mirrors. She saw her own reflection and weaknesses within his eyes.

Her mind circled back to the last time she saw him in public.

She had tried to avoid eye contact to spare the anxiety, but they managed to lock energies, as if a puppeteer was forcing the interaction. She bolted out of the establishment, leaving her drink half-full on the table, in fear if she stayed, he’d be able to coerce her to leave with him. She knew by now that her tactics never work as he followed her out the door.

She pulled her coat hood over her head as she melted into his couch.

His eyes glazed over while he passed the joint. He tells her why they cannot be romantic, yet stares so deeply into her eyes. Their agonizing conversations about the past force a bond no one could ever understand or break. Secretly, he is begging her to stay by latching his hands onto her hips for comfort as he talks in circles, trying to reason why they would never work as a couple.

She is a sucker for romantic words and he feeds her from a golden spoon as his hand moves up her thigh.

“You are interesting, passionate, intimidating, yet compelling…”

At this point, she knows he hasn’t comprehended what he is feeling. In time he will discover, he meant every word.

She clings to his back as if he is her last breath of air. His energy consumes her. She trembles as pleasure escapes her. She is alive to the point of excruciating happiness, but the pain of the forthcoming misunderstandings between them intensifies, and reminds her to go home.

He falls asleep with a dead arm across her body, like a seatbelt, as if he is her protection, and if she leaves, she will not be safe. She doesn’t attempt to bolt until he is snoring. His arm is so heavy. She feels as if she is trying to break out of jail. She contemplates leaving a note, but that would make this real.

It is 3 a.m.

The taxi driver pulls up to the curb,

“Address ma’am? You ought to be careful walking around these streets this late. You a’ight?”

The street lights blind her, staring doe-eyed into the distance. She sinks into the backseat and pretends to not hear the driver’s inquisitive questions. She doesn’t know this man. She asks him take a right and then a left.

When she gets home, words come spilling out from her fingertips into her journal as the sun rises over the horizon,

“I circle my way back to characters like you. I feel eccentric, desperate but satisfied, lonely but complete, aware of our situation but ignorant of what is to come.

I cannot quit you. And by you, I mean my desires. I am enthralled by your voice and fingertips, but you are not the first to entice me.

You are a victim of what I like to call my rebellious experiences that lead me to self-awareness. I have been this way since I discovered sexuality, and I am so sorry. I will always be a thorn in your side.

My soul craves romantic understanding and compassion. My wild fantasies turn into a heartbreaking reality for both parties involved.

If you cannot give me what I need mentally, I will disappear. I am not a stop-along-the-way. I am a destination. The past repeats itself over and over again. I subconsciously seek you out, because I know this feeling is fleeting.

I lust the impossible. I lust what I know is incapable of giving me what I want. I would rather try to fix you, provide you with an overwhelming amount of protection and loyalty, make your life a little brighter, shake you up, release your inhibitions, then let you leave once you realize I am too much of a woman to stomach.

It is not your fault that you found me tantalizing and mysterious. You took it upon yourself to want to get to know me. I could say that in a perfect world we would be an ideal couple, that everyone knows you & I have always been wild for one another. Our energy speaks so loud others catch on to the fury without us having to say a word.

The truth is I have never really felt at home. This emptiness inside of me screams, lurks behind the scenes, fights, and searches for an essence I cannot really pin point or explain. You give me the essence of what “home” should feel like.

Home to me is a state of mind, a fleeting moment, and a magnetic connection that only the universe could have conspired and encouraged.” Thought Catalog Logo Mark

About the author

Kristin Michelle Elizabeth

Author of ‘This Will Set Me Free’

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