Love Bled Raw

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
How many times does a heart needs to break for it to self destruct?

Submitted: June 11, 2016

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Submitted: June 11, 2016

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I contracted this affliction one calls love, when I was 14. Then, still naive and young, I was a Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita of sorts. Fast forward 22 years, here I am, donning different themes on different days, my moods depending solely on shapes of the clouds that form in the horizon of my miniscule existence. And so it is that when the clouds brood, I became Sylvia Plath of The Bell Jar, stirring my very own sour airs. When the clouds pour silver droplets, I became The Love Queen of Malabar, roleplaying as the sultress Kamala Dass awaiting forever for her Krishna's kiss. And when the clouds gleam against the back drop of golden sunshines, I was never not my Frida Kahlo, with crimson bougainvillaes serenading the jet black of her double braided tresses. At these special times I compliment my body with the flarest of skirts, to carry her theme to precision, and these are the days I flirt, sometimes leisurely, sometimes shockingly, imagining me as the reincarnated version of the Goddess herself. Once in a blue moon, I make O-rings out of my cigaretted exhales, just to show the world what a tough cookie I am, although if one carefully looks, they'll see the quiver of my bloodmooned lips while this bloodshot eyes of a thousand questions connect into theirs. Pain, despair, melancholia, saudade, became my single worded haikus, the mantra of my psychedelic existence.... They say there are drugs to cure what's ailing one's heart. Mine happened to be men, loads of them in all colors plausible. There would be days, sometimes months where I become the Saint, loathing the very glances of lustfilled young boys, old men, sometimes rich men with rich tastes. And then there would be days, when at my lowest point, I'd be the Sinner, scouring the streets living through my own version of Harlem , my own version of hell. My eyes would catch whomever I fancy, where I strike up conversations that all too soon goes into sexting, nude selfies, promises to meet up, hook up, etc etc etc. Him foolishly believing the sex is all that matters,and me foolishly believing the love is all that matters, and so it goes that i coax him into love, even if have to fuck him into believing. Of course it never happens the way I imagined it to be, the sex was always great for him, and the love was always out of reach for me, and so I break my heart into a thousand pieces again, hoping against hope for me to wither and die just then, just there. How many times does a heart needs to break for it to self destruct? Sometimes I laugh at my audacity, keeping secrets of magnitudes unimaginable against my better half, at times I wonder whom, or what is it that I'm taunting, like a sadist, whose only victim had always been herself. What is my final requiem? To love passionately, and be loved to the point of murder, in return. Too much to ask, I know, but it is either that, or the barter system, where imitation love could be bought for 60 minutes, in exchange for 33 degrees heat of a woman's body. Why do I roam the streets, selling this body as cheap liquors for hungry souls, when I could always look for it in decent,proper ways with decent men? I do not know. Probably its my style of saying fuck you to smug faced so called decent men who think they could always win me through their smart ass mouths. Men who never think twice to betray their lovers for a single one night stand. This is my life, i have no regrets. For the man who could hold my gaze and not falter for even a miniscule of a second while I scour through your heart, for the man whom I've yet to meet, for my Avalanche of Love, here is for you ; Like one thousand volts of electricity slashing through the infestations of a dangerous mind, I profess my love for you.....


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