“It was the way you always placed a period after you said I love you.
I love you.
I love you too.
It was always a period
Without excitement and without question.
As if there was never anything after that.
That it will always be.
As if it was always fact.
Like it will never be that you love me, but you will stop loving me someday.
Like it will never be that you love me, and it hurts.
It was the way you placed a period after I love you that told me it was written in the stars.”—Jenn Satsune (via ohsatsune)
Some of us love badly. Sometimes the love is the type of love that implodes. Folds in on itself. Eats its insides. Turns wine to poison. Behaves poorly in restaurants. Drinks. Kisses other people. Comes back to your bed at 4am smelling like everything outside. Asks about your ex. Is jealous of your ex. Thinks everyone a rival. Some of us love others badly, love ourselves worse. Some of us love horrid, love beastly. Love sick love anti light. Sometimes the love can’t go home at night, can’t sleep with itself cannot contain itself, catches fire, destroys the belly, strips buildings, goes missing. Punches. Smashes heirlooms. Tells lies. The best lies. Fucks around. Writes poems, impresses people. Chases lovers into corners. Leaves them longing. Sea sick. Says yes. Means anything but. Tricks the body. Kills the body. Dances wild and walks away, smiling.