Is there a greater pain than having feelings for someone and not having them returned? To one minute be floating and the next you have sunken so low it seems impossible to get up. Love and lust and romance are funny. They have this way of hitting you and hitting you hard. They instantly take up your entire mind and spread to your entire body, wrapping you up in this blanket, consuming you entirely. I think it is because they give you the false hope that maybe, for one minute, you are no longer alone; that the world won’t seem so unbearable because someone is right beside you, but that feeling of security and adoration is stripped away when you realize that you were the one that cared more. All of these ideas of dates and thoughtful text messages and flowers and sheer happiness do not exist anymore. What you felt was not equally reciprocated. And not only is that painful, but it is embarrassing. It is numbing. It kills. It is a pain that cannot be healed with a band aid. A heart wound bleeds and bleeds, and you feel like nothing. You want to become nothing. You can’t sleep it off. You can’t talk it out. You don’t want to continue living a life in which no one loves you. But you have to continue to function because lovesickness isn’t an illness or pain that can be physically seen. No, you don’t get a sick day or admittance to the hospital because your heart hurts. The world tells you to keep going, that heartbreak is part of life, and eventually the bleeding pain will stop. Meanwhile the other person is fine. Unaffected. Distant from the damage that he or she has caused. But you’re told that the heart will mend. Until the next time, and there is always a next time, that you are allured into a false sense of romance and security. And it isn’t fair. And it isn’t explicable. Believe me. I have always been alone. Why? I have no clue. I have no idea why I haven’t had someone enter my life that will cherish and care for me in a way that no one ever has. And this aloneness is never easy. Solitude is what I have only ever known, but it doesn’t stop hurting. The invisible but always present knife in my chest doesn’t ever stop plunging deeper. And that horrific pain? That is how I know that love is a powerful thing. Although I have never loved or been loved, I know how fucking awful life is without it. The sense of loneliness. The sense of feeling worthless. It is powerful and heart wrenching and miserable. So believe me, I know how awful love can be. “It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all” is so true. I have these scars and not one damn thing to show for it.