The Lover

There is a Love.

Do we believe in it? Do we seek it? Would we even recognize it if it found us, stumbled upon us half-drunk from our own lust and barely able to see through the bitterness?

What would it take for us to notice? A letter with our name, hand-written, inviting us to taste what it has to offer and test it against all the other Loves that have purported to be true?

Could we understand it? As a people so easily swayed by sexuality and hunger, ego and pride, how would we comprehend something that claims none of these characteristics?

Would we take it? After so many betrayals in our past and so much valid mistrust, would we be able to put aside our fear of one more knife wound in order to grab hold?

What you see is that I am bone and tissue and blood, moving altogether in fluid movements due to an incredibly complex mind. I am wildly durable, able to heal myself without even trying and alive because of intricacies so complicated they can't be seen with the naked eye.

But in reality I am so much simpler than that. I'm a heart that was given a body and that's all. My quirks, my likes, my opinions, I owe them all to the damage that this heart has endured ever since it was encased in this body. I am who I am because of what has happened to my heart and I owe any accomplishments I've made, and will make, to those same occurances.

My heart has seen so many failures and it's done so much wrong. It wants so much flesh and that hunger only grows. It's beaten and bruised those it loved and found that forgiveness was a fairytale not meant for the likes of it. And almost as if it was getting its just rewards, it's been stepped on too many times to count, as well. My heart knows nothing of True Love. My heart, as I said, has a body and that body has been bludgeoned.

...but it was each of those selfish, drunken nights that my heart found The Lover. Each time it found itself alone after being kicked around or after kicking someone else around, The Lover wasn't ever far. No matter whose bed I crawled out of, what bottle I drained or what back I ran my knife down. There is no shame I have felt so far that The Lover has turned away from; no secret horrible enough to disgust.

There is a Love.

Sometimes I don't believe it and I know that, often, it scares me enough that I run from rather than seek it.

I have evidence of my invitation everywhere - it's in the sky, the mountains, the grass, even in the image I see in the mirror - but I so rarely accept it.

I will never understand it. I've tried. To Love me like I am? Unfathomable. I can't even manage it.

But yeah, I'll accept it. I think The Lover a fool sometimes for offering it without any strings but, then again, I think I'd be a damn fool myself if I looked a gift horse in the mouth.

I just hope I do The Lover justice. I hope my heart somehow finds a way to give what it's been given.

Because I want everyone to know that there is a Love.