Love used to be something I wished for, something I wanted to attain. Something of which dreams were made. I had definitions of what I believed it to be, things like

love is giving someone the ability to completely destroy you, but trusting them not to


and

love is patient, love is kind. it does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. it is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, love keeps no record of wrongs. love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perserveres. love never fails.


but then I met someone I believed I loved, and who I believed loved me.

The latter was untrue. I gave him all I had and he failed me. Repeatedly.

I have never had much luck with love, with relationships, with... the human race. The first person I had ever considered myself as dating cheated on me and robbed me. My first kiss left me for another girl. Same with my first, shall we say lover, for lack of a better word. Not only did he leave me for another girl... it was the same girl both times. This pattern of being left, of being forgotten or pushed aside, of being second best, was something I grew used to. I became calloused and bitter. I still am. More so now.

I have broken many hearts. But I have been broken many more times.

I will probably never find love again. I do not want to, I will not seek it, and if it finds me, I will not embrace it. Love is a lie. The single greatest lie, I find, that was ever told in all of history.

Thus, do not approach me with the prospect of love. It is daunting and ill-advised to attempt to love me. Only the incredibly brave (and plausibly incredibly stupid) should attempt it. If you are willing to consider yourself a dolt, by all means, love me. But I soundly state I will not love you. I have learned.