The girl who’s afraid of love and its content

Once more, she thought to herself alone in isolation. Really it is the same plot and setting. Four walls of complete self destruction all housing trap doors and sunken trip wires. Love blooms bright, the petals catching the sun rays even through dim windows covered with dust. It crawls quietly underneath the bed at night whispering tales of fidelity, infidelity and mere confusion.
Two feet poke out from under the bed. Thus, as the young girl sleeps she pulls the blanket over head when the room is pitch dark.
Five years go by, then suddenly ten have escaped our mouths. We see this breath as we do in winter, mimic puffs in the frost air. I love you. I love you.
Try to tell yourself that before you dare say it to anyone else. She flinched backwards and clutched whatever was behind her. Such words of violence when they weren’t intended to be.
Love is learning. Twirling around in her room she plunges into her bed. What to do with this heart of mine? She wondered about that. The feet underneath her bed would move restlessly as if there were no comfortable way to stay put. Pulling out wrenches,  hammers and nails, she tinkered with what keeps one whole. She pulls her heart in and out of herself examining it, only doing so privately.
My love is like a red, red rose. It is cliché and it is not. My love is like hidden passageway and a secret garden. I turn into it slithering along the cool rocks and shed last year’s skin. The skin I take with me and collect them in a tiny shoebox pushed to the back of the closet.
I am certain that I am not certain at all.


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