A Slave to Love

People say you are your most vulnerable when you’re in love. I used to think they were wrong about that. They just never experienced love the way I did. I felt like I could conquer the world, like I could do anything, be anyone. I wasn’t vulnerable. I was invincible.

But I get it now, and I really wish I didn’t.

Love is a twisted feeling. Well, feeling isn’t the right word for it. It’s not as passive as a feeling. It’s more like…a ribbon. Random, I know, but hear me out. You know that warmth that fills your chest when you take that first sip of hot cocoa? How it makes you all happy inside? See, happy is a feeling. Happy just happens. If you’re lucky, happy happens a lot. It floats in you, makes you all airy and light, tingles a bit. Sad, too. It sinks into the pit of your chest, tugs on whatever’s in its path, heavies your breath. Love isn’t like that. It wraps around your heart and weaves through your veins like a braided silk ribbon. It pulsates through you with every beat, nourishing you, renewing you, consuming you.

At first, it blends beautifully into place. A single touch sparks a current, a hug radiates warmth from chest to chest, and a kiss sends a shiver down your spine.

You become addicted to the rush, to the thrill of that throbbing in your chest, that jagged breath, that tickly static beneath your skin from your forehead to your fingertips.

Then someday without realizing, the braids start to unravel a bit. The silk starts to lose its luster. You feel nothing from a single touch, no warmth from a hug ‘cause there’s too much distance in between. You kiss to fill the silence of unspoken doubts and unanswered questions.   

But the ribbon’s so deeply entwined within you that you’re tied to it, bound to it. You become a slave to its trade, desperately holding on to those moments you feel that rush. You do whatever love asks of you. You be whatever love needs you to be. At first, you take on a persona you never thought you would. Then you become someone you never thought you’d be until you lose sight of who you were before it got ahold of you. Still, you hold onto that love because you can’t let go of it. You know. Cause you’ve tried. When you pull away, the ribbon slashes into the ridges of your heart and squeezes so tight that it drains you from the inside out.

It won’t leave quietly on its own. It doesn’t dissipate like happy or sad does. The only way to fall out of love is to let it break your heart. So you let it do just that, and it stains you with its acquaintance: grief. Grief is the way that love throws a middle finger up as it leaves. I’ve yet to figure out how to deal with it, only to let it ride its course. When your heart finally mends, you somehow find yourself missing the weight of the ribbon around it. The ridges feel bare without their silk cover.

After what feels like a lifetime, a ribbon comes along. It wraps around your heart. Maybe this time, it will fit just right. It weaves through your veins. Maybe this time, it won’t unravel. It pulsates through you with every beat. Maybe this time, it won’t be any different from the last. At first, it blends beautifully into place. Maybe this time, it will stay this way.