I often think my ability to romanticize everything is a curse. You could break my heart into a million pieces and yet I’d still find a way to make you beautiful. There would be layers upon layers of distaste, my pain hidden beneath words, but somehow I’d make it into a journey that I’d take again and again.
But in reality, my heart bled for you and I was blinded by the tears you so easily let fall. My hatred for you is like poetry, words which roll off the tongue in a tangle of alliteration and symbolism. There will always be an excuse for you, for what you did to me. I’ll never really let the world see beyond my words, the ones I choose so delicately for you.
Writing makes me honest, but it also allows me to create a story which was never really there. It’s better that way. It hurts less. Even now I choose to see things in a way which clouds your cowardice and lies. Or maybe it’s just the way you look at me that makes me forget. After all, it was not beautiful. It was not stolen glances across a crowded room. It was hungry lips, fumbling hands, and the fire rising in both of us. It was toxic and enthralling and passionate. It was everything.
But there’s part of me, the cynic buried beneath the writer who knows the truth. I was just a girl. A girl who was her, yet not her. Not the first love, but I believed I was. It was a great story, wasn’t it? Chemistry so powerful it set fire to everything and turned the world to ash. But you, my love, are a liar.