He said loving me was like seeing the ocean for the first time. Watching the waves crash senselessly against the rocks, over and over. Grabbing fistfuls of sand as it trickled through his fingers, like my hair, brittle as ebony, strong and taut like the bumps of his knuckles. He said it was like swallowing his first mouthful of the sea—the sudden shock of betrayal.
He said loving me was like panning for gold. Sifting through arsenic, waist-deep in toil. Lured by the shimmer and promise of transcendence, like the river between my lips, a floodgate that opens for him—only when I choose.
And I told him, if I am so hard to love, then let me run wild. My love is not a testament to my surrender. I will show you just how much I love you, with the inward draw of every breath—the collective sigh of the world and all its despair. But I will never give you what you want in chains.
By Lang Leav