Unrequited love is a funny, silly, and absolutely absurd little thing. It’s a little red monster, cowering in corners, lurking within the deepest confines of the mind, waiting for the opportune time to strike. When he does, he is always armed with slivers of paper or fragments of wood, torture devices that just gouge and nick and otherwise not so fatally harm its unwitting victim. Unrequited love is like...a paper cut - that’s it! A paper cut. It’s superficial and altogether harmless on its own but once it comes in droves, in heaps and piles, soon you’re left with a thousand paper cuts, oozing and weeping red hot desire and inflamed with ice-cold lethargy. And it registers outside the mind as well. You approach the beloved, you coddle her with kind words and friendly strokes of the hair but it is all-too conspicuous that inside, you’re expanding, inflating with the leaking red hot desire and ice cold lethargy. You stare intently into her eyes, but all you see in those sky blue irises is the little red monster of unrequited love, staring you back in the face. He taunts, he teases, and he never, ever gets his just desserts. So he lives on, leaping and bounding from man to man, woman to woman, cutting and nicking and gouging their heart, reveling in the flow of desire and lethargy, passion and apathy, and most of all, the debilitating realization that they will never, ever love you back.


And it kills us every time.