submitted by upsidebarcodes
There’s a difference between living and loving and living for the loving that lives within those pits of your body that lie dormant for eleven of twelve months each year. Because that one month is sort of the month in which all of your happy moments string together into one long sunset and sunrise, and after all things make more sense at night anyways. A month of twelve being happy, but it’s not a solid month. It’s here and there and it’s polka-dotted like an old dress that your mom wore to her swingers dances, and back in the sixties they sang about ending the war and not about the money. And yeah, of course there’s a difference in living and loving, because living is kind of just a prick. It’s piercing your ear so you look nice a pretty, and it hurts like a bitch here and there. But then you’re good after a while, and then maybe you get another and another until you’re full of little holes but you never leak. Loving though, that’s like a fucking cannonball through the stomach. You’re ripping off your arms and legs, and pulling the stringies off of your heart so it’s clean when you hand it over, and I guess you kind of just hope to god that they give you something back so you can breathe too.
And blood’s kind of an illusion. Like you can break a bone and you can’t break a bloodstream unless you rip apart a vessel, and then what kills you first?
The blood and the love kill you. Living doesn’t. It’s structured and it’s straight and it’s guaranteed.
Bones aren’t fluid enough.
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