Blood Love

Love and Blood.

Why. You just don’t bloody seem to get it, do you. A million dreams, an eternity deciding on the perfect word, all I do means nothing to you. I hate it that you don’t care. You seem so distracted, so burdened, and all I want is to shield you under my wing. I would banish dragons and demons, and bring you necklaces adorned with baseball-sized diamonds just to see a smile light up your face. I would rather you hate me. Yes. Hate me, but never, ever feel nothing for me. Let me feel your anger, your burning passion, but never your cold indifference. Am I not worthy of even a flicker of emotion? Is it not blindingly obvious, a pink elephant stuck in the room, that I like you? Do you not know, or do you not care? In my mind, I see a man pounding on a door, beating until his fists bleed, kicking until his toe breaks and smears your iron facade with streaks of wet red paint.

I would run a thousand miles to win your heart, but every step I take seems to bring me further away from you. I feel lost, an unbearably heavy heart sinking like a millstone in the depthless ocean. You decide the outcome of my day, and my mood throughout the week. You are the reason I sprint through the day and fall asleep at night, for I know that I will be one day closer to seeing you when I awake.

Love is patient, love is kind. But surely you can’t expect me to wait for you forever, holding my breath until the stars fade and the sun burns out. Love is not easily angered, and keeps no record of wrongs. It’s true. Anger has no space in my heart, submerged totally in a tidal wave of despair. I can’t hate you. I can’t even dislike you. I should, I suppose, but I can’t. And as for keeping records, I assure you that I don’t have a book in which I jot down all that you haven’t done. But each time you disappoint me I feel a razor nick my heart, sending crimson rivulets flowing down my body in sticky vertical lines.

End.