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Love is not a nametag
Growing up I was always told that I was too young to love, too young to hate but love never wears a nametag; if it did love would not be so complicated. Was it not love when you wrapped your arms around me as we stood near that river bank and watched the sun glisten, as if it had a mission? Was it not love when you simply held me and talked about our future and bragged about us having children, while brainstorming names and solutions? Was it not love when you lifted me to your attention and asked for forgiveness? But then again, I think of hate. “oh such a terrible feeling” but no, I am not too young to hate the illusive the confused, fake, heartbreaking users, No I am not, I am not too young to hate nor was I too young to love, to forgive your despiteful lies, and the harsh truth through your eyes.
Yet I am left stuck by illusion trapped by your beloved creation as we laid upon broken woodchips and dreamed, as we listened to the sound of crickets in the distance which I swear to god were saying “Finally thank the lord, he’s committing” but today, I remain trapped with the smell of salty water and provisions of dancing birds along the river, parading in a multitude of color as they shimmered like some sort of fairy land but ultimately a prison. I remain trapped in your creation, your illusion. Iron gates, fire, dragons, and dungeons as I remain stashed away, poison rushing slowly through my veins.
But heed me when I say I am not your puppet. I will not be caught up in this virus, hemorrhaging through your perturbation. You will not throw me left and right like an old rag doll. I am not a piece of plastic recycling me is completely out of the question. I will not rest weak and defenseless as your disease cripples me. I will not rest until your cancer releases me. I will not set safe until I know I can say, that I’ve cleansed my heart of the toxic waste, the radioactive waves, and your contradicting ways.
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