It wasn’t love.
I knew it wasnt love, because the silences between us should’ve flit the air as freely as the clear waters of a river heading downstream, comfortable even tumbling over rocks and rubble. Instead, they stood heavily amidst us like a house of bricks that never budged, no matter how hard we huffed and puffed.
I knew it wasn’t love, because shouldn’t we have always wished happiness upon each other? Yet, you tied my heartstrings into knots, harsh and unforgiving, impossible to untangle. And every time you did, I found myself wishing more and more that the rope you had used would somehow lasso from my heart onto yours-so you could feel every single tug of pain exactly how I did.
I knew it wasn’t love, because although love is an endless game, I shouldn’t have constantly felt like the sore loser that desperately tried-and failed- to get to the top. Every wrong you imposed on me I would throw back at you as hard as I possibly could, wanting so badly to win just
I knew that love wasn’t a competition of who could hurt each other more so why did I spend every moment of my time with you trying to scale my way up on the rankings?
I knew it wasn’t love. Every sign of affection you fed me I gobbled up like a starving coyote that finally caught a rabbit. I was a little girl, and your words were my favourite blanket- every compliment, every reassuring word that spilled out of your mouth I clung on to for dear life. I always hoped that these words would make up for the fact that you were not the one for me.
Love wasn’t supposed to be like this.
But if it wasn’t love, what was it?
If it wasn’t love, why does my heart still take flight at every mention of your name? Or maybe flight is the wrong word- it feels more like a plane getting hit by the turbulence of merciless winds. Surely having a tsunami within me, feeling the impact of tidal waves crash onto every single inch of my stomach isn’t normal?
If it wasn’t love, then why is every second of my day consumed with the thought of you? Washing the dishes- you. Eating breakfast- you, talking to my friends- you, sweepingthefloormakingcoffeeclosingmyeyestogotosleep-you, and waking up, my eyes still bleary from sleep and my brain just beginning to function properly-you.
If it wasn’t love, then why does every silver car that drives by make me think of the way that you sighed on the freeway as you took my hand and placed it in yours? Why do my insides become a twisting, turning roller coaster everytime the radio plays the stupid rap songs you listen to? Why does every single strand of hair on my skin rise when I think of your skin on mine?
If it wasn’t love, you moving on from me shouldn’t make my throat close up like there is something sitting inside it, blocking the airway and leaving me choking. The way you smile- shy and innocent, pure and harmless-should not hurt me the way it does now that I know that it is no longer me that you are smiling at.
It wasn’t love.
I know it wasn’t love.
But love was at a dead end
And I was on a one way street.