I used to read a lot of angsty teen fiction
but I also loved Jane Austen and Shakespeare and F. Scott Fitzgerald,
and Pablo Neruda who wrote poetry that tasted like everything I’ve ever wanted.
So I’m sure you can imagine I had a very healthy and realistic portrait of love.
Spoiler alert: I did not.
So when love finally came around and nuzzled my leg, wrapped its tail around my ankles,
and eventually, slapped me straight in the face,
I bungled it all up.
Imagine giving a child a key to the amusement park of their dreams and saying “hey, it’s all yours, all you have to do is face your absolute worst, deep down fears.”
Yeah, love was a little something like that.
You see, I was knocking knees, chattering teeth, cold sweat afraid.
I’m a Slytherin goddamnit, not a Gryffindor.
So I shut it up, in a little box, only letting the light leak out on the darkest of nights.
And you really only get one chance to fall
with your heart all in one piece because every time they walk away or even if you do
they take a little part of you that you always thought you couldn’t live without
and every time you love again it is a little more broken but somehow a little better.
You learn that it is not about holding on so tight that you forget who you were before and you don’t believe you can be after,
it is about letting go because your souls have something to say to each other,
and you best get out of the way.