Laced » Lip Gallagher [3]

7: sunflowers

"I hope you find a way to be yourself someday in weakness or in strength..."

-

I used to think that the moment you stopped loving someone, your heart would stop.

I was terrified the moment that the love between two people died, it would slow your heart rate and you would just drop dead. The red glow in your chest would dim, taking all your light with it and leaving nothing but a corpse in its wake.

I was scared that heartbreak could kill you.

The first week after me and my mom left my dad, I cried each night cuddled into her side, scared that she would die of a broken heart. I never left her side because I thought the second I wasn't with her, she'd drop and never get back up. Even on nights when she was gone out of her mind, high off a new drug, I would hold onto her shirt and tell her repeatedly how much I loved her. I thought my love could save her from dying.

But she never said the three words back.

A few months after that, I convinced myself that maybe a broken heart couldn't kill you, but you definitely wouldn't be able to love again.

My mom's smile was never the same. Here words were never as soft, and her touch wasn't as gentle. I watched as her exterior hardened from the outside, in. She didn't love me like she used to, and all the boyfriends she ever dated never made her smile like my dad. She wasn't capable of love after falling out of it, and I was convinced she never would be.

So, blame it on failed parenting, or severe daddy issues, but either way my view on love will always be twisted.

My view on love is troubling. When I think of love I think of razor blades dividing white lines. I see nose bleeds and disappearing butterflies. I see a broken boy behind bars begging for affection. Shattered glass. Empty bottles. Broken pinky promises.

But underneath all the raw and unrequited anger, I see him.

And that's the worst feeling of all.

I held onto the stems as tight as my fingers could allow with laced thoughts of crippled hearts and ugly love. I could feel a sheen of sweat develop around my fingers while I bounced on the edge of my toes. My stomach stormed with nerves before I gained the courage to finally knock.

It felt strange. Knocking on the door to the home where I would normally burst through like it was my own. I hoped that they didn't think I was some sort of debt collector or, worse, the cops.

Everyone knew I would just walk right in and demand my voice to be heard.

But desperate times call for desperate measures.

And I was beyond fucking desperate.

When the door finally opened, I held in a breath of air and held the bundle of flowers in the middle of my chest. I smiled to the best of my ability.