#an incredible amount of brainrot in this season it must be said. who knows when it'll end

[thebirdandhersong]

you THINK and wholeheartedly believe that love is going to be a good and beautiful thing and then it comes to your door again and you realise love is like a roundhouse kick to the face love is an icy raindrop sliding down your back love is laughter that cuts deeper than any other pain you've known love is a cup of tea you make that someone leaves on a counter which remains untouched until you pour it down the sink love is hearing voices outside the door moving further and further away from you love is memorizing what the beloved's back looks like because you're always the one watching them leave love is nights filled with sadness so delirious and intense you won't let yourself sleep love is standing by a window waiting pacing the room waiting always always waiting for the knock that never comes love is an unsent letter you can't bear to tear up or throw away love is a hopeful cocoon that you break out of desperately reaching for metamorphosis only to find that the only thing there waiting for you beyond the veil is the smallness of yourself love is sitting at the same stupid table peeling oranges for someone who doesn't want them until your hands bleed. you want to believe love can be a good and beautiful thing and you DO believe it for other people, but with every new minor tragedy it gets harder to believe it's possible for you because there's always the sneaking suspicion lingering (post-ex-boyfriend, which........ thanks, buddy) that it's such a burden and a chore and an inconvenience and a sisyphean task and a herculean effort to love you, so why would anyone bother? which you know is a silly thought and an irrational fear rooted in past pain. but reality seems to tell you over and over again that your idea of love being a good and beautiful thing was only ever a dream, and that the girls they chose and love and put an effort towards and are pursuing joyfully and steadily possess a certain irresistible radiant compelling brilliantly burning light that you don't have anymore, or maybe never did. naturally you somehow manage somehow to turn this into something about shame, too, because you believed love was a good and beautiful thing, and that's embarrassing and naive, but then you kept believing it, even though this area of life continues trending towards tragedy. in month nine of unending heartache, there's a part of you that is starting to believe that it will always be this way: that it will never change: that this is where it starts and ends. you in the kitchen peeling oranges. putting on a brave face because your darn pride would rather have you die than allow people to notice you're in this specific pain, trying to distinguish between your agony and your self-pity, futilely wishing all the while you could burn down the dream that refuses to die