I’ve always been infatuated with love. The word, the feeling, just everything about it. I’ve always lusted for it. I’ve craved it. I’d give and give my love to everyone around me as soon as I let my walls down. But, that’s the biggest mistake I make — I let my walls down. I let others in my heart, to do as they wish, and I give my all. Like falling into a bottomless pit, once they fall in, it’s hard fall out. What is it like to be wanted? To be beautiful? To be called it every day and not have a care in the world because you actually mean something to someone out there? You don’t have to worry about any bullshit, like how this generation acts. What’s it like to have an adult-like relationship? To be held at night? To be told “I love you” and it actually be meant? To not feel, or be, used and then thrown to the wolves? The solemn knell of melancholy belligerently casts away in my mind. Existing in a generation surrounded by Photoshopped flaws, plastic surgery catastrophes, and a fake personality. I may not be everything you want, but — who am I kidding, there is no arguing that. I’m imperfect. I’m emotional. I hurt without showing others until my hopelessness fills to the brim. I flood. I explode. I rage. I calm, like the eye of the storm. Only temporary. Until I don’t feel anymore.