Crazy in Love

Bubbling to the surface, I feel the tension rising far too late to stop it. The foaming of the love-drunk, confused, hurt heart that hits a scar on a snag and remembers all over again the initial cut. Ms. Crow may have pined that the first cut is the deepest, but the madness that infects it hurts the worst. The anguish of blindness towards every lover as my fingers atumble to decipher the Braille of what he's done now. There are never words gentle enough or precise enough to explain that this is the little transgression that pushed Montresor over the edge and made him kick down a wall in an abandoned cellar for his dearly beloved, Fortunato. There is never a good time to reveal the skeletons of stillborn loves in my closet, killed because the lungs couldnt form or the heart didn't beat or the brain didn't develop fast enough for me.

This burgeoning bud is the closest I've gotten to loving anything so genuinely in years, since the last implantation nearly tore me in two when it was ripped out. I now fret over every quickening, not sure if they are butterflies or the early warning signs of a miscarriage. He's too far to assuage any doubts and most remedies are just placebos for the looming question I used to whisper into dandelions before blowing away the seeds and germinating everything in the nearby vicinity with a spreading virus. Love me, love me not. Love me. Love me not. Love me. Get this mass of feelings that can quickly turn into a gasp of sobs or a burst of uncontrollable hot anger and hold it tightly. Love me not. Uproot yourself and walk like a mangrove tree before the seed has enough time to wrap its fibrous roots around you and forces you to be part of its growing process.

Winter is coming, a time when madness gets harder. Dandelion seeds spread by the broken-spirited start to pick and bloom and fight for a place. Viciously and savagely cutting others off like you hear in songs. Misery Business is the work of a dandelion, taught from birth how it's a weed no one wants, and how it will strangle anyone it's near. But I've gone Rogue and tried it anyway, allowed myself to be vulnerable, and got the Angel's wings cut off. Now I sit alone in the wilderness, waiting for the night to be over, wondering if you'll come back again and keep coming back the next day and the one after, or if I've overstepped some unseen boundary and lost another one.