Amor is a stupendous, yet bizarre sensation, creating psychosis in even the stablest of mindsets. I am a broken, damaged treasure, black with the macabre touch of a scarred heart. I’m always alone in a crowd, because the nature of humankind terrifies me beyond your understanding. Are we meant to be? As if subconsciously, I seem so keen as to conjure a disaster from the beauties of simplicity—I suppose you, with your insecurities, prefer simplicity. However, I don’t share this desire. In fact, a messy relationship is what, to me, defines the truth of love. As such, love is illuminated by the dim, flickering bulb of fear and loneliness. When I am with you, I am lonely. When I am not with you, I am lonely. This is an eternal complication, a contradiction that, for some foolish, irrational reason, is the only way in which I know how to love you—by tearing apart that love. I don’t mean to knock you down like a stack of cards, but it seems in my nature and my soul to do so. It’s my one and only wish that maybe, just maybe, you realize this and have faith in me.
I love conflict and passion, the fiery flames of arguments. Disaster is so strangely arousing to me, whereas perfection bores me. It’s quite probably immaturity, but I don’t know of any other road to tread. I cannot simply watch movies now and again, and then perhaps cuddle. I need spontaneity and erratic behavior, I need to know that your insecurities can damage me, because then your love can repair me. I need to be broken down, to collapse into a clutter of shards that shape themselves into my fears. It’s emotional sadomasochism, and it’s vicious and cold, but it’s how I love and know how to be loved, so tear me apart… just remember to fix me when you’re done.
