Modern Romanticism

All it was, to her, was a reception. She received, but she left behind an important piece to the whole. Something that she couldn’t comprehend, perhaps? All it has been, since to repeat it becomes needed, was a reception. Something to hold, someone to hear whisper to her heart in a space inside of it that lacked some depth. That voice transformed shallowness into a canyon.

She took it, or took from it, or she had just received if not to fathom everything. A warmth came, a surge had been felt, but not all of it came into her consideration. Love had rushed, blood sped up its rivers in her form, again coming from a heart that had been given some depth. But her questions came, of those that said, “Who are you, really?”

In her life, she had known nothing but pain. If this was to be another of its familiar kind, she will receive it. And she had. She received it as another gift, but she had, and it must be enforced that she overlooked something. For what can love be disguised as? If not for its truth, then it can be misunderstood to be a lie. Though, a hurt person will take lie for truth and not have hurt revived until everything goes grey.

Welcoming it. Receiving it. She had not embraced a lie, the pain, at first, when it was, in her eyes, the love she missed. Someone’s love, another’s gift, entering into her arms adorned in all that can glow. A beautiful present, at first, until she asked another question. A question that was similar to the last one, “What are you really giving me?”

It was not betrayal. It was not a lie. What can one expect, in this case, from raw hurt? Someone who’s hurt, someone whose existence is spent during more serious moments bathing in tearstained memories; that’s a person who finds difficulty seeing anything better. She did not ask for love. She did not wish for her heart to be lit like a candle, as if its wick was spotted to be bent in submission.

In her truth, she wished to be left alone.

A road forward was all she asked for, while she never asked for it. That path was something she carved for herself, even while unresolved grievances were a weight that she dragged from her ankle.

This begs the question to be repeated. What can one expect from such raw hurt? A repeat of experiences cannot differ gift from gift, truth from lie? Through the lens of pain, she views love as a mere prison. And it had always been a prison where the term “inmate” could be understood the same as “bride” might.

We might seek to love her until she begins to fear nothing at all. At first having everything to treasure in her heart of secrets, to soon return to that state of believing the next one on line has the same face.