by Violet

I used to think love was a madness that manifested itself in the hearts of weak women. Women who had given up the infinite possibilities that the world had granted them, women who would never accomplish anything that society deemed worthwhile. Because being a mother in this day and age is not something to be proud of, it is a signal to the rest of the world that you lacked the ambition to fight to be remembered. You belong to the class of women doomed to be forgotten, too fragile to exist on the stale parchments of history. The light of these women fade at the same consistency as the china patterns they obsess over, their lives revolve around the cries of children and the endless demands of childish husbands. These women are accused of relying on men, they take and take and (according to everyone else) they never give anything back.

I see now with a dull winter ache and a still beating heart that it takes power to give love away, and mistakes may have been made but I did not crush myself to pieces just to watch you walk away and brag about how easy it was to hurt me. My mother did not scream till she lost her voice just to watch me lose myself in the darkness, I was taught to follow the stars.

I know now in your heart of hearts that those beautiful promises originate from a place of such cruelty that they make your hands shake when you touch my skin, and the blemishes don’t show up for days but the scars simmer for decades. I see her shadows stalking you in the dark, you are plagued by secrets. You crave my affections but you loathe my company. You wish you could be alone but you hate being lonely.

I want to know what you’re looking for, if we’re both searching for the same madness, if you know how to ask the right questions. I stare into murky brown eyes and I confess that I believe this madness is inside all of us, it runs through my veins, from the soles of my feet up to the tips of my fingers and it has ruined me many, many times. But it keeps us moving forward, propelling us towards our inevitably disappointing end, and still we march on, day after day, like little toy soldiers. You take my hand and lead me on this path of destruction, and I don’t mind, not even a little bit.

Because in my heart of hearts I know everything you think you’ve hidden. In my darkest hour I’ll remember, you were so fucking broken.