We love each other most
when we’re bandaging the cuts
we carved with razor blade kisses.
We’re only happy when we’re helpless.
We only think we’re moving forward
when we’re running back to each other
with stones in our feet,
when we feel strong for withstanding
the war zones we created,
when we wring out each other’s sadness.

We love each other most
when we’re without each other,
when I’m missing you in the middle of conversation,
staining the glass shards with love
and sleepless nights wishing
it was you in my bed. We’re only happy
the moment we crawl back in.
We only think we’re moving forward
when we’re getting off the floor
and finding a home in each other.
We don’t realize falling on the floor
is sometimes the way you get through this.

We love each other most
when we realize we don’t love each other.
We love what we can do for the other.
We love the comfort.
Because this isn’t love;
this is obsession;
this is toxicity.
This is not how love should be.