If you have to keep asking yourself why you are with someone, then should you really be with them? I mean how far can love really take you, and honestly how far can you EXPECT it to take you? Love does not make the world go round, it isn't all we need. It may begin wars but it does not end them. It doesn't pay the bills. It doesn't heal wounds. Sometimes it is just another way to bleed.
I am bleeding. I will not say that I am dying. It is not that severe. But there is pain. Is it better to love but hate?... to love then lose?... than to never love at all if never loving means never feeling? If all I have to feel from this... emotion is aching bitterness, sour betrayal, vile stupidity, and self loathing then I pass.
But my actions betray my words. I am like Eve saying, "God give me another chance." Because I cannot take this hell I have subjected myself to. But chance after chance I still find myself at that tree, reaching upwards, convinced that this piece of fruit will be so much sweeter and so worth it.
Is it ever worth it? Is it ever enough? Does it ever all just stop, rest, then fall gently into place so that I can breathe a sigh a of relief and with a deep satisfaction say "Love" and not cry at its proclamation?
Would have loved, should have loved, could have loved. I do love and because of that I bleed. I cry. I hurt. I scream. Why don't you hear me? Why don't you answer? And why is it that when you do answer, it is never what I want to hear? Let me deafen my ears to your words because they are not sweet or poetic. Let me close my eyes to your face, your flesh because seeing only makes me believe more although there is no faith and no foundation beneath those cells. Let me ball my hands into tight unrelenting fists when you are near because every touch makes me want to give in again. I will turn my nose away so that I can not smell the temptation in the air about you and close my lips tightly so that I can resist tasting your forbidden flesh. Slither from my path. Or if you must stay in my garden give me a deserving fruit to grow because I tire of being barren, empty and alone. The dirt passes through my fingers though I grasp it tightly. I need you to hold my hands firmly, not loosely lest these fields drown in my spilled blood and flowing tears, never to give life, laughter or love again. Take my hand, fill me up, love me. Let me love. Just don't make me do it alone.