the hurting kind

I used to love. I used to love hardcore. I used to love so much that I intentionally gave pieces of myself away in an attempt to receive "love" or whatever scraps I could get from another man. I used to love romantically and unquestioningly. I loved unapologetically so much so that I believed the crumbs that I fed off of were sustenance. I loved being in love. I loved love and swore with all my heart to be the kind of lover that would always be honest, and kind, and faithful, and true. I loved so much that I was blinded to red flags. The vision of love that seeped into my brain/heart was tainted by rose colored glasses. When affection came, I mistook it for desire. When friendship came, I mistook it for companionship. When sex came, I mistook it for love. I loved to the point of no return, that everytime my heart got broken, I swore, the next time I loved, love would repair me. I grew up waiting for love. Waiting for someone who wasn't bound to me by blood to notice me and deem me worthy of love. I felt that surely so many years of self love and reflective love would grant me a place at true love's table. Love would set me free to be the man I wanted be. I would justify my love by being the kind of example that I never had as a boy. It almost felt like a selfish kind of love at times, because all the people that I knew...those who were experiencing love, were hardly ever kind to the ones they committed to loving. My love would prove them wrong. My love would transcend. My love would be poetic. I loved like a lovesong, knowing that it was the hurting kind of love, but I had nothing to save me from myself. I loved in fear. I loved in sadness. I loved a part of me that existed to be seen by others in hopes that my qualities and my gifts would be equal. That I would be loved. Unconditionally. With open arms. Without subtext or definition. That I would be loved. Loved for being a man. Loved for being a son. Loved for being a husband. Loved for being queer. Loved for being any number of visual representations that comes with letting another person into my heart. But repayment for my love left me alone. And left me forgotten. And I stopped looking for love. Love couldn't knock me down anymore. Love couldn't keep me at arm's length with promises of happily ever after. I loved so much until I was love spent...love had killed me. Maybe not literally, but figuratively, love took its last breath and cast me aside. Love left me with memories and catch phrases like "tis better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all" and I pretend that the truth is buried in bitterness and resentment, because love never left an owners manual. I loved love. Even when love couldn't love me back.