Love is not a poem
It’s a bad habit with good lighting, or as the new-age retards call it: aesthetic
It starts with serotonin setting you up like that shady friend who swears “This one’s different”
It’s a bluff in broad daylight
You get high on forehead kisses and shared playlists
And before you know it
You’re trauma-bonding over alcohol and daddy issues
They say love is magic
But then, deep down, you know magic isn't real; magic is make belief
A carefully crafted con job for deluded desperate people too scared to admit the universe doesn’t owe them shit
It’s a placebo sold in pop songs and paperback novels
You think you're starring in a rom-com
Spoiler alert: You're the unpaid extra in a psychological thriller
You’re not watching the movie
You are the plot twist that gaslights itself every single night into thinking "This is normal"
You romanticized it
Of course you did
They fed you Shelleys, Bollywood, and Valentine's Day capitalism before you hit puberty
They never taught you how to walk away from someone just because they were bad for your brain chemistry
Because nobody wants to hear that love is Pavlovian conditioning
That you’re just chasing dopamine with a smiley face
That heartbreak is withdrawal
That healing is rehab without the group therapy
You don’t miss them
You miss the daily dosage of distraction from yourself
Because me-time is like weekends; necessity but in minimums, overdo it, and you feel your sanity packing its bags in silence
And so you go back
You think maybe this time, love won’t be wrapped in dreadful baggages and unresolved PTSD wearing a perfume you once liked
But deep down, you know
Love is just another drug you forgot to quit
And worse?
You're already looking for your next dealer, hoping this one is sangria in a wine glass, but knowing full well it is arsenic in a whiskey bottle
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