Falling in love.

People will tell you that it’s something sweet and innocent. Thrilling, perhaps a little dangerous, and amazing. Like jumping out of a plane with no parachute but enjoying the ride. Even knowing that you may hit the ground below and shatter into a million pieces. 

Falling in love…. It was nothing like that for me.

For me, it was like slipping down a dark abyss. Shards of crystal-cut glass shredding every inch of pale exposed skin until I was nothing but a bloody remnant of what I once was.

But don’t translate such an image into me not enjoying this version of falling in love.

Because, at the time, I liked the thrill of it. Of wondering which sort of person he would be today. 

Gentle. Thoughtful. Kind.

Manipulative. Gaslighting. Narcissistic.

It was like a game. A game that was only fun until someone got hurt.

Mostly me.

But also her.

She liked the feel of falling, too. The worst part is that we both knew we were being used interchangeably.

She smelled like lemons, I smelled live fall leaves. She wore pink lipstick, I wore red. 

We both knew we were both falling. That we both were being swapped out every week.

Week one belonged to me, week two belonged to her. We understood and agreed.

It was part of the fun, right?

Until we finally hit the ground. Together, as it should be.

Because he didn’t just have us, but others. People who lived for the thrill of his “love” too.

Falling in love.

I wish it were different for us.

But wishes are for fools, and this kind of love is like a drug.

You can’t escape easily.

And, maybe, we don’t want to.