Love is not a fossilized emotion
you bubble-wrap in benevolence
and bury beneath your trauma-tinted tenderness —
like it’s a rabid dog you leashed
because it let you pet it once
without bleeding.
But you —
you turned the relationship into border patrol.
Scanning tone like contraband,
treating pauses as proof of betrayal.
Love isn’t a security threat.
It doesn’t need surveillance,
just space to breathe.
You call it passion.
You call it care.
It’s a hostage crisis
where you’re both negotiator
and fucking terrorist.
Every fight?
Another remix of Paranoia Unplugged,
with Trust Issues on infinite loop.
You call suspicion “care,”
control “concern,”
and cloak your fear of abandonment
in the language of affection.
No wonder love’s gone silent.
You think you’re preserving it —
you’re not.
You’re pickling it
in the brine of your unprocessed grief
until even the salt files a restraining order.
We glorify love like scripture —
as if only the shattered
can pronounce devotion correctly.
But love isn’t here for your healing arc.
It won’t carry your father’s silence
or your ex’s ghost
without breaking its own spine.
Still, we worship it—
sculpting saints out of stalkers,
writing vows like fine print on prenups.
Poetry doesn’t make it love.
It just makes the lies scan better.
Real love?
It doesn’t need a stage or a spotlight.
It doesn’t script grand gestures
or make villains out of vulnerability.
It just shows up —
on quiet Tuesdays,
with unfiltered truth
and the courage to say:
“I care, but I’m still learning how.”
Love is salt.
Unpretty. Honest. Essential.
Too much kills.
Too little starves.
But we —
we keep plating it like a goddamn tasting menu,
calling it fate,
and when the rot sets in,
we blame love —
not the fact
that we cooked every dish
with trauma-soaked hands.
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