Love Is a Car Crash
To love someone is firstly to confess: I’m prepared to be devastated by you. —Billy-Ray Belcour
Everything you love will probably be lost, but in the end, love will return in another way. —Franz Kafka
You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. —Louise Erdrich
Above: In order to experience love, you must first experience death.
Love is not earned or won,
Love is a car crash just waiting to happen.
Time slows down—
And when you realize what’s happening,
It’s too late.
Fate is in motion; the accident has begun.
It’s messy.
It hurts.
It leaves a mark.
No one is at fault—
Each party bears some blame,
For the emergent chaos, escaped from within.
Whether driver or passenger or bystander,
You don’t want to watch, but you just can’t look away.
The danger is invigorating, the frenzy intoxicating.
When two souls collide at high speed,
Wreckage ensues and debris embeds.
Collateral damage is necessary when two become
One.
Feelings lodge deep like shrapnel.
To pull them out would be suicide—
Too much blood lost far too quickly.
This is no minor scrape,
It’s a crash that leaves no one alive.
The history of love is a graveyard,
Full of corpses, littered with wreckage,
And somehow gorgeous.
After all, flowers only bloom from dead things:
Waste made compost from past crashes.
Before you floor it, buckle up.
In the ruins you can piece yourself together,
But you’ll never be whole again.
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