Love’s Death

I killed a butterfly today. 

He was asking for love. I told him it didn't exist. But he was hell-bound to convince me otherwise. He made all the flowers in my garden bloom, hoping I would notice and come out of the dark shed I have built in my room. He would tell me that he would wait until I learned to get up and see the beauty behind it all, no matter how much time it took. He promised he would stay and he hid but I all I could do was push him away.

To be honest none of us were at fault, I liked him. But I was barely holding onto myself and how could I give love to someone else when I have just now escaped my own house and had just started building my home. It would be a crime to fall in love with someone and ask for all of their attention and care without being able to give that back to them, it would be a crime to take all from him without being able to give back, what if he needs me someday and I lay there hugging him without understanding what he is going through, wouldn’t it be as bad as lying to him?

I wasn't always this way. I used to love making connections. I used to strongly believe that love is the most beautiful thing in this world and we humans are the most lucky creatures to get to experience that comes along with it. But then came the long winter. The longest winter I have ever experienced in my life. It stayed for a good 3 years. The winter that burned a hole in the left side of my chest. I wouldn't be surprised if it went right through my heart. Maybe that's the reason of it feeling so weightless at times. A lot of things changed. The hole grew bigger with times. I learned how to stomp that "If the world doesn't, I will still pour out my kindness even to my enemies" piece of little shit theory of mine. I learned to punch then bury and then cover up that hole with hobbies and art.

But now everything feels exhausting, even going to the office and pretending to be all cheerful and blooming is a facade that I carry. Sometimes all I want is to lie down on my bed and be wrapped in the blanket and not get out for days. But I can’t afford that luxury, can’t afford to not talk to anyone and ask people to not talk to me when I go to the office because that would be rude and I don’t really like hurting people. I can’t roam around the streets like a homeless person and click photos and sit with them for hours while I get the correct shade of green or blacks in my photos, because everyone is an artist until the rent is due.

Now I look at myself. Feels like I am covered in some foreign goop now. Maybe I got this from my parents, a byproduct of their failed marriage, a child born out of pure societal pressure and agony not out of love. Don’t get me wrong, they took care of me, to the best of their abilities at times and sometimes and even beyond that. But throughout my childhood I was always alone. My mother for example, she was there but only physically, my heart she was always filled with vengeance, anger and fire from the time every time she was wronged. Maybe that’s why I could never make her happy, no matter what I did there was always someone better than me, someone who got better marks, someone who was better at singing, drawing, competing, racing, slept less, worked harder, was silent, was energetic and more. She thought I was a kid like they show in those advertisements who would light up their whole world, would push away her sadness with my achievements, but I was always different, different that the shape she wanted me to take.

So I stomped and stomped and stomped on him, until he was half dead and convinced that love didn't exist anymore. I made sure that he wouldn't trust anyone's love ever again. I made sure he would despise and run away from love for as long he lived.