Under every cynic is a broken heart.

Love was a thousand things she never really wanted to define.

It was stormy nights with purple clouds. So bloody terrifying. Because she was afraid of the thunder and she was afraid of the lightening, and she wasn't a fan of rain- but damn weren't those clouds so pretty? and so she went outside and stood beneath the tallest tree she could find. Of course she'd heard the warnings before, but it didn't matter anymore. Hell, if she was going to burn, she was going to burn well.

It was French Vanilla Chai tea with a just a touch too much honey. Calming, sweet- everything she could ever want at first. Yet by the time the mug was almost through- it was too sweet, and bitter all at the same damn time. Every time she finished the glass, she swore she'd never make it like that again. Still, she ended up with the same result. Every. fucking. time.




Sometimes, he liked to pretend that love was like a movie.

Something you could rewind back and repeat. That you got second chances on. She knew better though, she knew every time he hit the back button, he was ripping the ribbon that held the tape together. She warned him and he just smiled.Smiled and hit the button again, determined to prove her wrong.

So she simply smiled and prepared herself for the inevitable.






Mostly though, Love was just a clock.

A melted, warped clock. Ticking as though it has a purpose, even though it's far too fast. Still telling itself that it matters, that someone cares- but they don't. Because it's an old grandfather clock, and the screws are lose, and no body can read the face through the dust. Not that they would bother to anyway, because no one really learns how to read a clock properly anymore. They're more worried about speed- and it takes time to look at.

Yet people still keep that old grandfather clock around, because of false delusions of old memories. Of hopes and things that it may represent.





Love was just a lie.

she knew that.