Love, it's such a cute little thing. Starts off creeping and slowly, those squinty eye smiles and playful taps. You don't really notice at first, how it gets in your mouth when you talk to them, light things like how your day went. Lays thickly on your tongue, coating your teeth, you know their fears and their dreams. It grows like mold on your hands when you touch them, inflaming spores spread across your skin. The sparks when you touch, all along just nerves short circuiting as they die. Crawling scavenging roaches carving nests into your stomach, somehow mistaken for "butterflies". Deluded nightmares so covered with saccharine images of desire that you mistake them for dreams, that you mistake this feeling for happiness when in reality, it is anything but.
It's when you're fully infected that you take notice. At that point when you're body is just a host for the parasite. The point at which you can do nothing but watch as you surrender to what started as a simple "feeling". You're taught that hot can burn and cold can freeze but fates such as these, simple, quick. A true devilish torture is hope, it'll burn you alive then frostbite that which survives.
Then comes the curtain call, the final scene, where your heart shatters into a million pieces, where the butterflies metamorphosize into their true forms, sugary gumdrop dreams rot, and your tripped breaker senses stop.
So what happens if you survive, you ask? Well it's quite simple my dears, it happens all over again, maybe even faster. You'd think your body would create antibodies, make a vaccine against this awful condition, but no. You are no more prepared the next time it happens and even if you are, don't think you can stop it. Like they say, love always wins, "they" just don't tell you the rest.
Poetry » Love Rated: K, English, Poetry & Hurt/Comfort, Words: 310, Published: 7/22/2013