Your love was a disease, an illness to the mind. A cloud of judgment, a melanoma of morality and the blinding of reason. But when has love ever coincided with logic. 

I fell for you the same way that one catches a cold. Seeing the symptoms, yet disregarding them. Refusing to take the medicine of reason; refusing the antidote to the venom of your kisses. I was so far in, so engulfed in your so called “love” that it wasn’t until I was sinking fast in the quick sand of our relationship; barely gasping for air. That the smoke cleared, and my eyes finally opened. But when your so far deep within the tunnel, there is no sign of light. Your kisses turned to bruises, your caresses into pain. Your affection into detest. And your adoration into regret.  

The illness of your love, consumed me. The diagnosis fatal, weakening the foundation of my entity. Holding me captive in a haze of lies and half ass excuses; the cheap justifications to your actions. Like a drug addict, I couldn’t leave your affections. But instead was left with the bitter taste of what was and what could have been. The scars caused by your lips sink deeper than my skin, and aren’t left on the surface but my psyche. 

Your love a drug and I the addict. Flying through the highs of your laughter and the lows of your fists. But my addiction to your love kept me a prisoner anxious, nervous and awaiting your next move. I the logical, reasonable and outgoing strong woman had become the quiet, introverted victim. A victim to his love crimes; a free spirit taken by force.