Dante and Virgil
William-Adolphe Bouguerau, 1850.
They told me how toxic and damaging you are ever since I could remember.
I’m more than just painfully aware of this fact.
It was confusion at first. I was quizzical as to why anyone would love you, and how some (literally) couldn’t live without you. There were barely any allure.
You passed, or perhaps surpassed, the test of time. Second chances morphed easily into countless instances.
I love you a bit more than I should, because I know that you are my safety hazard. I full on embrace and attach to the havoc you wreak. My world could be tumbling, crumbling, and shattering down, you would still be one of the few remaining constants in my life.
You were there during some of my happiest moments, but consistently there during all of my worst. I’m addicted to you, because you were the shoulder I would cry on.
For a while, I started to throw myself at you daily, because the thought of losing you was too hard to envision. You were that perfect crutch that held me up so securely and told me that everything would eventually be okay.
Oh, how I love you so, even with all of the headaches and fragmented memories you’d bring.
Maybe you loved me, too, so much so that you strangled and kidnapped me from parts of reality.
I forced and mourned my loss of you, yet you found your way back once again.