It is a poison,

Spreading through the veins, crippling the senses, murdering the heart, finding hilarity in the destruction it is causing.

It brings out the best in me.
It lets out the worst in me.

Love.

You see the images on the internet, you watch the angst-driven television shows, you see the movies, you hear the stories, and somewhere along the line you start building up this ideal in your head

on

what love will look like, what love will feel like

on

what love will be and sometimes you hold out for that and sometimes you don't, but all along there is a burning desire inside of you that tells you that what you have doesn't measure up.

And during the fights, during the screaming, and the yelling, during the throwing of your cherished objects, I disappear in to the dark abyss because this, this love, is nothing like it was supposed to be.

Defenses rise, and you forget why you are doing this, why you are still together, and you realize that a knife in the chest would be such sweet relief.

You say horrible evil things and you do disgusting and vulgar things and you justify them because you are hurting because you are being hurt and because you believe you are alone.

The slow burn of love chars the flesh, soaks the heart in gasoline and lights a match. It is not what it was said to be, and nothing about it - about love - is effortless. It is the constant pushing and fighting and coming to grips with the fact that you must surrender, always living with the burn, from this day forward.

Why?
Because he made promises.
Why?
Because, he loves her.
Why?
Because you know, somewhere, somewhere so deep down, that this is what it is supposed to be...

Is it worth the pain?