It always hurts to fall, and so it will always hurt to fall in love or to fall apart.

I lay down.

Am I in love?

And does he love me or just the idea of me?

And do I love him or us?

I am an aching human conundrum.

I somehow am a mystery, even to myself.

And so maybe I am not falling in love, and am only falling apart.

Or maybe I am falling in love and falling apart, because this is what love does to you. It plays with your mind until all that is left are signs from the stars.

Love takes reality from you and throws you into the deep end of the pool, it makes you swim.

Love tears you apart.

And so maybe we fall apart because we fall in love.

And so maybe I love him.

I feel the sour on my tongue. I bite down.

One.

Two.

Three.

My vision is red and my soul is a convulsing mass of sour.

Why in anger do we want to fight?

Or run?

What if there when we were angry we sat to write.

To think.

My fists clench so much that I feel my veins against my bones.

One

Two

Three

Why is it that when we are angry reality leaves us?

That vision leaves us.

And smell.

And sense.

Why when we are angry does everything which could help us fight leave us?

Were we truly meant to fight?

And why do we fight with our fists?

When words hurt so much more.

Why do we want to hurt when we are angry?

Why don’t we want to heal.

To solve.

One

Two

Three

The red is fading.

Words muffle pain.

My hands are sore from writing now and not from fighting.

And I understand her pain now, the one who hurt me, and I am not angry anymore.

I am only sad.

For her.

Because she still does not understand why she is angry.