Those lovers who stab themselves in the neck every time something goes wrong. Those lovers who become strangers as if it didn’t mean a thing. All of those lonely, lonely lovers who lose their spark and end up like their parents so stale and predictable, never learning from their mistakes. There should be fire and violence and darkness, not happy birthdays and holidays and trips to Ikea along with three thousand photographs celebrating normality and how glorious it supposedly is to be like everyone else. Real love should burn until it hurts. It should consume like a virus and leave those afflicted broken and beyond repair. If it doesn’t, then it’s not real love. If it doesn’t fuck you up, then what’s the point? Love has burnt me out, which is why I’ve avoided it for so long. It’s true that writing takes up most of my free time, and my transformation into a writer has been my one and only concern leaving little opportunity for romance. And yet I’ve deliberately steered clear of anyone who stirs the devil within because truth be told, I just haven’t been up to it. Kinda lame I’m sure you would agree, but when my heart takes over, it feels everything more than it should. When obsession reigns, there’s nothing I can do but succumb to its wicked ways, and what a rush it always is to taste that dangerous delirium I know will push me so close to the edge that if I were to reach out, it would place the palm of its hand in mine and squeeze tight. There’s this song by Beach House called Elegy to the Void. When I close my eyes and the music takes hold and transforms into imagery and emotion, I salivate at how it makes me feel, and even though it’s been so long, I lose myself and feel alive in the strangest of ways. It is this sensation that captivates me every time I write. This dance. This invisible kiss of tongues and teeth and secret bliss. To smear my love upon your chin. To take a bite out of you as you float in that void ready and willing to pull me in. Oh, how it wears me down when I try so hard to be strong.