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I think love is nice but not in a poets words.

Love isn’t free for all where you should be loved no matter what but instead its hard work and pain.

It’s feeling not enough or worthless by small things they didn’t mean and turning around to hurt them just the same.

It’s a minefield of ‘I’m sorry’s’ and triggers until you learn to dance through it together.

It’s crying over past pain they didn’t mean to surface and screaming over hate they didn’t mean to give.

Love isn’t fancy or beautiful at the best of times.

It’s messy and horrifying and painful.

It makes you want to run and end everything with them but you can’t because you love them.

It’s selling them the darkest secrets for a glimpse at the compassion they promised.

It’s a vicious game of Russian roulette and so far I’ve been shot every time.

Love isn’t building the best parts of yourselves up together and everything being perfect.

It’s preferring to hurt yourself over them and throwing the most painful parts at them until they rebuild them in their own image.

It’s knowing that if they walk away they take every part that’s been fixed.

It’s risking being better or completely ruining yourself.

It’s knowing you’ll never be worth the fight and still waking up choosing to torture yourself in a hopeless attempt.

It’s hoping that maybe you won’t be worthless to everyone.

It’s begging one person to stay and promise to love you even when it’s painful because it will be.

It’s knowing the chances are higher in you breaking them than them loving you.

It’s choosing to selfishly ask them to never leave even when you make them want to die.

It’s feeling like there’s no choice but each other.

I don’t think love is nice in a poets fancy words.

I think love is nice in a poets pain and a child’s dreams.