Etichete

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Oh, the pain named love. When would I ever stop recalling the snappy belt on my bare skin and instead start remembering the first kiss? I don’t know. She first told me she loves me when she was dying, but I don’t remember the way she said it. Her voice. Was she even looking at me? Did she say it out of guilt? Was it remorse or self-inflicted punishment? Did she actually say it? Did she caress me, touch my cheek, hold my hand? I remember holding hers. And wanting to dissolve myself into that frail appearance of a body I called Mother, so she will finally accept me and take me with her. I loved her all my life with an intensity that brings me to deconstruction every single time I have to remember. Why do I have to remember? I don’t remember the answer. 

So many times she told me that “I love you” is too precious to be called out too often. One has to prove the love, not to verbalize it. One has to be worth of being loved, to deserve it, to fight for it. You don’t talk about your feelings, because is tacky and it shows how weak you are. Words don’t mean anything, while actions speak volumes. Did I really beg her to tell me if she loves me?! Like, how many times? Was I  five years old or twenty-five?

So, she showed me volumes of truth with the belt and lied to me on her deathbed?

So, she left me with volumes of words.

How could one take away something that was never there to begin with? How could one give something that was never received? I don’t even know the definition of it. My dictionary keeps offering “pain” every time I search for “love”.

Why do I believe in “pain”? Why don’t I believe in fighting for it anymore?

I think being loved, truly, truly loved requires being lazy and undeserving.

Deserving pain takes too much bloody work.

I. pain. you.