LOVE IS NOT WHAT WE’VE ALWAYS BEEN TAUGHT.

LOVE IS NOT AN EMOTION.

LOVE IS NOT THE BUTTERFLIES IN YOUR STOMACH.

IF YOU CLING TO THE IDEA THAT THE BUTTERFLIES

IN YOUR STOMACH ARE TELLING YOU THAT

YOU’RE IN LOVE, THEN

YOU ARE NEVER GOING TO HAVE A LASTING RELATIONSHIP

BECAUSE BUTTERFLIES DIE.

LOVE IS A CHOICE.

THE CHOICES YOU MAKE CAN LAST FOREVER.

BUT BUTTERFLIES IN YOUR STOMACH FADE AWAY AND DIE.

LOVE IS NOT NERVOUSNESS.

LOVE IS A CHOICE.

IT IS A CONSTANT CLINGING TO SOMEONE

BECAUSE YOU WANT TO,

NOT BECAUSE YOU FEEL YOU NEED TO.

LOVE IS NOT SEEING PERFECTION IN SOMEONE’S EYES.

LOVE IS SEEING THE LIGHT AND THE DARK AND

CHOOSING TO HELP LIGHT UP THE DIM PARTS.

LOVE IS NOT THAT ELECTRICITY YOU FEEL

WHEN YOU KISS SOMEONE.

LOVE IS CHOOSING ONE PERSON’S KISS OVER EVERYONE ELSE’S

REGARDLESS OF HOW IT MAKES YOU FEEL PHYSICALLY.

LOVE DOESN’T JUST GO AWAY.

PEOPLE CHOOSE TO STOP LOVING ONE ANOTHER

BECAUSE LOVE IS A CHOICE.

PEOPLE DON’T WAKE UP NO LONGER LOVING SOMEONE.

PEOPLE WAKE UP CHOOSING TO NO LONGER LOVE SOMEONE.

IT DOESN’T JUST HAPPEN.

IT’S A RESULT OF A CHOICE.

PEOPLE CHOOSE TO LOVE OR TO NOT LOVE

BECAUSE LOVE IS NOT AN EMOTION,

LOVE IS A CHOICE.

LOVE IS A CHOICE.

LOVE

IS

A

CHOICE.

He was someone else's and we were complete strangers.

But his eyes were so blue that I found myself staring, constantly staring and wondering what it would be like to be the reason for his smile.

It started out beautifully then curved into teenage angst; fighting and making up.

But I loved him.

I broke up with him once and he cried. It was then that I knew that he actually loved me, too.

But life got in the way and he went down a road I wouldn't dare follow. We remained friends and dated off and on, but mostly we were off. The switch was broken because, in one move, he broke my heart.

He asked me once, "what do you see in the future?"

And I replied, "you." It was simpler then. It was easy to see him and only him.

He said, "I see us married with kids and a golden retriever. You'd have your big yard and I'd have my muscle car."

It shocked me, at first, because he'd actually thought about these things in such detail. I had too, but I didn't want to admit it.

Three years passed and the switch remained broken. I saw him again, high and in the wind. We were with friends, but the moment we were alone he said, "Do you remember when we were fifteen and I asked you about our future?" I nodded because that's not something you just forget and he followed up with, "marry me?"

He cried. For hours, he cried and told me about his thoughts and fears. I listened, but not with the same heart. He asked again and I kindly declined. I wasn't taking him seriously. Instead, I said we should sleep and that night, I chose to sleep on the floor.

The next morning, we sat on the front porch and he asked me again. I said, "you were actually serious? I thought you were just saying that because you were intoxicated."

Apparently, I was wrong because ten years passed and I happened to see him again. And he reminded me of the conversation. I just laughed and told him that I didn't think we were meant to be anymore. Life has changed both of us.

To this day, he still asks. And I always decline.

If you meditate on death long enough, he will seek you out. But, Death will not knock at your door, as you wish. He will not come in announced and have a cup of tea with you.

He will not calmly ask, "How are you doing today," casually as he crosses his legs while enjoying your recliner.

Death does not care about how you are doing. He doesn't give shit what you want of him, or how you expect him to be. He isn't your therapist, your daddy, or your friend.

Death is a fucking rapist.

He will creep in your window and he will fuck you up the ass. Hard Slowly draw his scythe across your throat and watch you bleed out, gleefully.

Death doesn't care that you have a family (everyone does, whether you talk to them or not).

Death doesn't care that you just thought up a cure for cancer. He'll take you quick, before you can share your knowledge with the world.

Death doesn't care if you're a president, a scientist or a fucking hobo eating shit out of the dumpster.

He doesn't care about you or respect you.

You know who death respects? The Queen of England. That cunt is 100 and going strong. But, eventually he will come for her too. Probably give her more respect then he gave Elvis.

Death fucked Elvis hard. Took him right on the fucking toilet. Told him he lived too fast and too hard and said, "Fuck you Elvis, you plagiaristic bastard."

And don't fucking shoulda, woulda could death. He's heard all your shit before. He sniggers as you plea with him.

Please give me a few more years?

Please give me one more sunset?

Please give me one more fucking orgasm?

Oh he'll give it to you. If he's feeling frisky. He give you one more orgasm, as the sunsets, on your 10th anniversary, that you shoulda spent with your wife, instead of your mistress.

OH! He'll fucking cum all over his robes at that one. Gives him a chub just plotting it out.

He knows how your poor wife will cry hysterically when she finds out. Giggle like a school boy when he thinks of the long-lasting shame he'll bring your family.

That shame will be life-long for them, but is only a blink in his long gaze. Death has seen Forever and looked that bitch in the eye.

Forever isn't the sweet love you carve into a desk when your 14. That twat is gnarled and haggard and her gaping vagina is filled with razor blades. She'll fuck you too. Forever will leave you a bleeding stump of your former self.

Only Death is brave enough to fuck her. But he has not escaped her seductions unscathed. He believed having Forever would be bliss.

He was dead fucking wrong.

Death will fuck you up the ass and hand you over to Forever. Forever is the true sadist in their relationship. You will get to be the dirty third in their ménage a trois.

Now just think about that for awhile.

I hold stones in my hands and lucidly wonder where to cast them, knowing that the direction I throw them in could effect every known dimension, and every world within them, and every known period in time for good or for bad.

I'm standing in a darkened room with seemingly no end in any direction, little dots of light, some bigger, some smaller, scattered everywhere; some small spheres floated and spun around an invisible orbit. It wasn't until I had dropped a stone by accident and heard what seemed like thousands of screams echoing inside my mind when that stone crushed one of the small floating spheres, that I realized that I was looking at the universe in miniature size, as if I was monstrously large, even larger than that of stars. And I realized that the stones that I held were Death, and that I was the Reaper, the Harvester of Worlds. With horror the stones slipped from my hand, crushing stars and worlds, even universes, and in the end causing a chain reaction that made the room explode with light, and then go completely dark.

- Michael Hall

"Betty," I called out softly. The pale, watery moons of her glazed eyes slowly made their way to my face, darting here and there in their effort to keep track. She blinked slowly twice, her partially toothless mouth half open. "Yes?" She managed. "Who was that man who came to visit you last night?" I asked. "Man?" She said reaching for her medication. Her trembling hands worked at the cap. I watched her struggle. What a cruel joke, to put Parkinson's medication in a child proof bottle. "Yes," I insisted,"he was standing in the doorway watching TV with you." "Mmmmdid he say anything?" She asked shaking out pill after pill from her endless supply. "No, he was just standing here, I almost ran into him in the hallway, I thought he was visiting you and Chris." "Hmmm what did he look like?" She asked without interest. The flickering candle light made the living room feel hot and close. Her makeshift bedroom was dark even though it was almost three in the afternoon. "He was a big guy, thick arms, kind of barrel chested, big guy, white shirt, denim jeans, I dunno, looked like a workin man I guess." "Oh," she said offhandedly, "did he look like this?" She held up a grainy photo of a burly man with a little girl. The cheap dollar store frame was coming apart at one corner and her wrinkled thumb was straining a running crack coming from it. "Yeah, that's the guy." "Oh," she chirped cheerfully, "that's my dad. He was here? I wish I had seen him." I returned to the attic where I had spent the night with her roommate/tenant, a girl I was seeing. "Remember the guy I told you I saw last night?" Her head lolled toward me lazily. "I asked Betty, she said it was her dad." "No it wasn't." she countered back curtly. I bit back my irritation as she took another drag off her menthol cigarette. "Well I described him to her and she showed me a photo of him so..."

The weight of her head tilting in my direction made her eyes roll before finding my face. Her mouth twisted to one side as she raised an eyebrow in a look that implied saint-like patience. "Hailee, Her dad has been dead for two years."

we act as if our past can be forgotten-

as if we can just cast our memories like stones-

as long as they're thrown into the sea

the crashing waves will erase our history

but does our past really ever leave us alone?

there will always be scars beneath our broken bones

our past is here,

our past is there

our past is everywhere

we're engulfed by old memories-

transparent ghosts

hiding in our cupboards

sneaking into the pockets of our coats

my mother once told me

whenever she eats cheese fries

she always remembers her proposal date

the day he asked for her hand in marriage-

she remembers

because that's what they ate

i wonder what she thinks

when people sip their drinks from fancy china

and speak of north carolina

where he broke their unbreakable vow-

two words can slash open a dam of memories somehow

maybe she cries

maybe she dies a little inside

but all i really know is

she loves cheese fries

I try to set my heart free,

but it just keeps coming back to me,

it's cage is open but it never leaves, it's like theirs no one it can trust not to just hurt it and let it bleed.

Then you came along and set it free, now it flitters around you,

knowing it's safe from pain when your standing next to me.