Irony
Never say never.
Huh. That's funny.
Hilarious even,
ironic for sure.
But that's life,
right?
Fight or flight?
Live or die?
Love or hate?
I loved once.
Not childhood infatuation,
nor even storybook romance.
But true, genuine, love.
It was never perfect.
It had it's ups and downs,
smiles and frowns,
laughter and tears,
hopes and fears.
It felt amazing,
and no feeling in the world,
could ever compare.
But it also hurt,
more than anyone could imagine.
Love is the slowest,
most painful form of suicide,
they say.
They are right.
To have your heart fly free,
let loose and unprotected,
to love with your all,
your heart, body, mind, soul;
your very core,
it's great.
Until you fall.
Until it's too late.
Until you learn it's a lie,
and your love says goodbye.
Then you are falling,
faster than any bullet,
spiraling.
Your heart is beaten,
battered and torn,
all hope lost,
forcibly forlorn.
Then you learn,
that to build a wall around your heart,
to guard it carefully,
to lock it up,
and throw away the key,
is the only way to survive.
To numb the constant pain,
to block out all the tears.
To never let them fall again.
To never, ever, be free.
And to never love again.
NEVER.
And there,
lies the irony.